


I Want to Break Free

by paladin_cleric_mage



Series: I Want to Break Free [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Body Horror, Child Abuse, Child Death, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Non-Consensual Touching, Past Sexual Abuse, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2020-07-20 00:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 47
Words: 100,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paladin_cleric_mage/pseuds/paladin_cleric_mage
Summary: Life makes survivors of unimaginable horrors yet gives no tools by which survivors can piece themselves together again. How do those living on islands of hurt use their desperation to reach the mainland? What if the journey there is more treacherous than the island itself?Please note:- I love all comments!- This is a post-S3 work, with additional works in the series. Check out "Prologue" and deleted scenes.- Songs featured in order of appearance (including title track): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0OAQkSqkU9CniaVzVGM43i?si=RDbQz-5pR-SUKhx1qYyl7w





	1. Lucas

“How could you be so irresponsible? Don’t look at the floor, look at me.”

Lucas forces his chin up. He locks eyes with his father and nearly falters. It’s impossible to be strong anymore. His jaw stings. _Stop it,_ he chastises, _now is not the time to cry!_ Erica wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. Beside him she’s standing tall, somehow still proud of herself for being a part of this massacre.

And _massacre_ is putting it lightly. 

Yesterday at the hospital, Nancy rose from the rubble and brushed the plaster off her dress. Will watched her suspiciously; she had been locked inside a room with a mini Mind Flayer for how long? She couldn’t say, and neither could Jonathan. He’d been rendered useless by a metal stool to the back that cracked several ribs. But Nancy? She was fine.

Until later that day, when Eleven saw Billy in her mind. Nancy stood up from her spot on Hopper’s couch and walked stiffly to the front door, ignoring Mike hissing her name. Since he was glued to El’s side, it was Lucas who got up and ran after her.

Will caught him on the porch. “Don’t,” he said. “She’s not herself.”

The implication was clear. Still, Lucas couldn’t reason watching Nancy disappear into the woods without hearing the words. “You think she’s Flayed?”

“I wasn’t sure at first,” Will sighed, “but now I am. The way she left, I think He just called her to the meeting place.”

Lucas thought about what Jonathan had told them an hour ago, before he fell into a wounded sleep on Eleven’s bed. The men who attacked them at the hospital melted and converged into a monster. “And if the Mind Flayer called her…”

“He probably called everyone.”

“Shit.” Lucas shook his head. “What are we going to tell your brother?”

“Jonathan? What are we going to tell _Mike_?”

Thankfully they weren’t responsible for breaking the news to him-- not then. It wasn’t long after that El came wailing out of her trance.

Currently, in his own living room, their father clears his throat. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Lucas walks a quivering tightrope. If he tells too much truth, he could land his family in danger. If he tells too little, he could be grounded for life. Whichever direction he takes he runs the risk of not being believed, and that feels a lot like falling.

So he ventures carefully. “Remember two years ago, when Will went missing?”

Their father’s eyes widen. “What does that have to do with the Russians at Starcourt tonight?”

“Everything! This town is seriously messed up, and it just so happens that my friends are involved. The mons-- the Russians were coming after El tonight. We couldn’t stand by and let her get hurt!”

Their mother cocks her head. “El? Is that the new girl from school?”

“No,” his sister interjects. “That’s Max, his _girlfriend._ ”

“Erica!”

“Lucas,” his father warns.

He takes a deep breath before answering. “El isn’t the new girl from school. She’s Chief Hopper’s daughter.”

“All the more reason for you to stay out of it!” His father shouts. “You know I don’t trust that man, and we taught you better than to get involved in someone else’s business.”

“It’s not that simple! If you’d let me explain--”

“I don’t care to hear anything else from you. No radio, no phone, no leaving the house for the rest of the summer.”

“What!?”

“That goes for you too, Erica.” Their mother puts her hands on her hips. “Are we clear?”

Lucas wants to scream that no, we aren’t clear. Why should be be punished when none of this was in his control? He was barely twelve years old when he got sucked into this drama, and he’s starting to think he’ll never escape it.

“We’re clear,” Erica says.

She might not escape this either. Maybe their father is right: Lucas has been totally irresponsible.

Now he’s defeated. “We’re clear.”

“Good. Bring me the radio, now.”

Obediently Lucas trots upstairs to fetch the radio on his nightstand. It was a Christmas gift last year. The best gift he could have asked for— it even reaches Max if the weather’s nice. He holds it in his hands like a dying pet and wonders, did his friends make it home yet? He made it out of the mall without any injuries, and was driven home immediately by Officer Powell. The others weren’t so fortunate.

“Mike, Dustin, are you guys home? It’s Lucas, over.” He waits a minute, then adds, “If anyone can hear me, I’m grounded. I’ve gotta turn in my radio. I'm…”

How could he press every feeling in his wiry body into a few words? The fear alone is larger than the Mind Flayer itself. Where’s Max, and is she safe from Neil’s reaction to his only child’s death? Did anyone pick up Jonathan from Hopper’s cabin? What is Mike going to say to his parents about Nancy? The Mind Flayer is dead, meaning so are all the hosts that congealed to make its viscerous form.

“Lucas, it’s Dustin, do you copy?”

“Yes! Yes, I copy! I’m grounded for the rest of the summer and I don’t know when I’m going to see any of you again. Tell everyone. Over!”

“You help save the world and get grounded for it? Are you kidding? Over.”

“Yeah, and so did Erica. Keep an eye on Mike, would you? And tell Max… I don’t know, tell her I’m sorry I can’t be there. Over.”

“Keep an eye on Mike and tell Max you love her? Got it. Over.”

“What? Dustin! I swear to God, if you—” His father calls him from downstairs. “Shit, I gotta go. Over and out!”

* * *

That night his subconscious percolates right below the surface of sleep. Each little noise wakes him partially, looping him into another row of crochet ringlet dreams. Yanking someone by the hair and sinking a knife into the flesh at the corner of their jaw. Closing all the blinds around a stranger’s home and hiding in a dark bedroom, holding Max. Erica wearing Robin’s sailor outfit, bleeding from the left eye. The Mind Flayer ripping El’s leg off. Chief Hopper.

* * *

Late the next morning Lucas wakes up tangled in his own bed sheets, feeling foreign. His damp body is stiff from stress. Images strobe through his mind like sunlight through the leaves of the giant oak above his bedroom. Yanking back the wrist rocket and letting her fly. Eleven holding Max, both of them sobbing. He sees Robin sitting beside Max in the parking lot, sharing a shock blanket in spite of stranger status. Explaining to Officer Powell they need to pick his sister up from a hill on the other side of town.

He stretches and hits something-- someone.

“Erica?”

She grumbles a sordid insult. 

So it happened.

It really happened.


	2. Will

“No!” El shrieks. “No, no, no!”

“Honey, you _need_ to let them touch your leg.”

“It’s not safe!” She fights against the arms of Mom and a male nurse. From the doorway Will notices her leg is still bleeding.

It was the hospital gown. El was quiet when they wheeled her inside, and when his mom helped her change while Will and the nurse waited in the hall. When the nurse re-entered and saw El in her gown, she lost herself.

A flashback of where she grew up, probably. No, _definitely_. Will wishes he could tell her that she is safe, that he’s worn a hundred hospital gowns. He’s been poked and prodded, watched silently as doctors deciphered codes on their funny machines and looked at Mom and Hopper with big worried eyes. And he survived.

Stupid. Will might feel connected to her because of their ties to another world, but El’s experiences with medical facilities and touch have been terrifying. After Will was resurrected nearly two years ago, Mike told him about her. The stories of where she came from, who her Papa was, and how she disappeared moved them both to tears. Though _Mage_ pales in comparison to the depth of her strength, it makes sense that she can’t be strong now.

“Joyce?”

The two adults freeze. Will whips around, hoping to see Chief Hopper.

Instead he sees a kind and tired face that's been weathered by stress.

“Dr. Owens?”

“In the flesh.” He suggests a smile and lightly squeezes Will’s shoulder as El whimpers miserably on the bed. Dr. Owens assess her and says, “Why don’t you let Will give it a go? I’m sure he can make sense of this discomfort to her.”

His mom exhales loudly. “If that’s okay with you, sweetie?” Every time their eyes meet she looks worse. Something inside her broke tonight. Although Will is too young to name it, trauma recognizes trauma. A familiar featureless face.

“Yeah, of course.” He steps forward. “El?” She nods wearily. Will looks back at Dr. Owens, who waves Mom and the baffled nurse out.

The bed is flat and stiff, meant for examining patients rather than letting them rest. He sits on the edge, careful not to get too close to her legs. Blood soaks the sheets. She looks up at him and sniffles. “He’s gone.”

There are no right words to combat the shock of loss. He simply affirms it. “I know.”

“ _Gone_.” Tears run from the corners of her eyes. She tilts her head. “The Flayer came for me, but Hop is gone. Billy. Nancy. Gone.”

Will nods. He offers her his hand and she takes it. “I hurt Max, and Mike.”

“The Flayer hurt them, El. Not you. This wasn’t your fault.”

“Why, Will?” she pleads. “Why am I here?”

There is no right answer to justify surviving, and even if there was she wouldn’t accept it. A soft knock on the door spikes her fear. “Stay with me?”

He feels her fear and pushes back against it with hope. “Until you say to let go.”

* * *

It's still dark out when his mom returns with a new doctor, a woman who looks at the clipboard and then El’s leg. She lets Will stay as she explains stuff that makes Mom cry quietly by the door, her mouth covered with one hand. Muscle is damaged. Tissue is tainted by an unknown chemical.

El and Will exchange a glance.

The lower part of her leg has to be removed.

* * *

“Alright, let me get this straight. Robin, Max, Lucas, and Mike all went home. Everyone else is at the hospital: Steve’s got a concussion, your brother’s got broken ribs, and your mom’s waiting around while El’s leg is chopped off?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“How _would_ you put it?” 

Dustin’s obnoxious. That’s all Will can think, which means Mom was right. It’s almost noon on Friday, July 5th. He’s tired and needs a safe place to rest where he isn’t alone. Unfortunately for him, Dustin caught sleep last night after talking with Suzie and saving the world. He’s wide awake and ready for lunch. Will is ready to collapse. At least he’s in clean clothes, sitting on the floor holding Yurtle.

“I’ve got updates, too. Lucas and Erica are grounded for the rest of summer, possibly for life. His radio is gone.”

 _Gone_.

“And I called Max. Her mom answered and said she was sleeping. Doubtful, but considering her stepdad just lost his only kid, I didn’t push it.”

“Wow. You’ve been busy,” Will observes. Then, with a tinge of guilt he asks, “How’s Mike? I haven’t had time to call yet.”

“No idea. When I called the house earlier Mr. Wheeler told me he wasn’t available.” Dustin scoffs. “That useless piece of shit.”

It’s funny in a sad way. He and Dustin have great moms and no dads. Mike and Max have shit dads, and moms that are too distracted to care where they are. Lucas and Erica have strict, present parents who trust them, while Steve-- according to Dustin-- has two parents who aren’t present at all.

And El? She has no one.

“I’m worried about her.”

That sobers Dustin up. “El? Me, too. I mean, losing a limb? What more can she go through?”

“Exactly. Plus, she thinks this whole thing is her fault.”

“Bullshit!”

“The Mind Flayer remembers her from when she first opened the gate,” Will shrugs. Yurtle’s tiny claws scrabble against his lap. “She released the Demogorgon.”

“Yeah, _on accident_. Did you tell her that?”

Will nods. “I also told her I’ve never blamed her for what happened to me. My forgiveness isn’t important, though. She’s convinced Mike hates her now.”

Dustin rolls his eyes. “Please.”

“Even if she killed his sister?” Will air quotes _killed_.

“Even if. He and Nancy weren’t close. I mean, with what happened in the past two years you’d think she’d look out for him, like Jonathan looks out for you.”

Will grimaces. “He doesn’t.”

“Since when?”

“Since Nancy became the most important thing in his life.”

“Sweet Jesus, what is wrong with these people?”

“I don’t know!” Will whines.

“Couples don't have to be inseparable. Look at Lucas and Max, they've been together for months and they still hang out with us. I’ve got Suzie, but you don’t see me living on top of the hill!”

Will smirks. “You would if you could.”

“Dude, you know I’d build a sick fort up there.”

They laugh.

Dustin’s mom calls them for lunch shortly after, and Will returns Yurtle to his terrarium. He puts one claw against the glass as if waving goodbye. Will waves back. 

* * *

Post-lunch Mrs. Henderson pins up dark sheets over Dustin’s bedroom blinds so Will can get some quality sleep. As he lays in his friend’s bed in artificial darkness he thinks about how unsettling summer is. Routine is already dismantled because school’s out. Now it’s further disrupted by the effects of the latest crisis.

During lunch Mrs. Henderson had the news on. Reports of the explosion at Starcourt. No mention of a monster, and no need; the media paints the Russians as monstrous enough. There’s no good explanation yet for why so many townspeople are “missing” aside from the explosion. Eventually, Will thinks, Dr. Owens and his people are going to have to make a statement. Families need to understand their loved ones aren’t merely missing, they’re dead.

All those people, no bodies. No closure. Will thinks of Nancy and rolls over to find Dustin’s radio. Calling Mike is worth a shot, even if he didn't pick up for Dustin. To his relief Mike buzzes in after a few tries. “Why are you at Dustin’s? Are you okay? Over.”

“I’m okay, I guess. My mom… she’s at the hospital with Jonathan and El.” He isn’t sure he should say it, but doesn’t see sense in omitting the truth. “El’s leg was infected. They had to amputate it below the knee. Over.”

There’s a long stretch of silence. The house phone rings and a minute later Dustin opens the door and hands Will the cordless. “Sure, he’ll talk to _you_!” he complains on the way out.

Mike is crying softly. “I wish I could be there for her. She’s so alone.”

“No, my mom is with her.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’re caring for her.” He lets that sink in. “How are you?”

Despondently, “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. You matter.” He matters more than anyone else in the world, but has no idea Will feels that way. He wouldn't, because Will's never told him, too afraid.

Fear’s useless now, isn’t it? They almost died last night. Again. He might as well just say it, the three words he’s carried in his chest for years. "Hey, Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I tell you something?"

A muffled bell on his end stops them short. “Will, I’ve gotta go. Someone's here.”

“Wait--”

“We’ll talk soon, okay? You can tell me whatever it is later, I promise. I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Mike, I--”

 _Click_.

“I love you.”


	3. Robin

“Who was that girl?”

“What girl?”

“The girl I was sitting with outside Starcourt.”

Steve strains to remember, his left eye a slit trapped in a grotesque golf ball. That and the stitches below his lip make him look more like a Halloween mask than a boy.

Why does he have to think so hard? Sure, emergency vehicles were wailing and the flashing lights were bright enough to make even the healthiest person’s head explode, but Steve _knows_ the Griswold Family. How could he not remember? He walked to the back of each fire truck, personally checking on his children until a paramedic made him sit down. Robin had kept an eye on him then, just as she’s watching him now.

“Earth to dingus,” she sings, “who was she?”

“Uh, red or brown hair?”

“Red.”

“Oh!” he snaps. “Max! Billy’s stepsister.”

“Billy, right.” Robin picks at a mystery splotch on her stupid skirt. “That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“That you shared a shock blanket with Max? Seriously, Robin. Go home and sleep.”

“No, he died.”

“What?”

“Billy. He gave himself up to the monster to save El. It stabbed a hole through his chest. Max said there was blue blood like, dribbling from his mouth.”

Steve’s face slackens. He shakes his head. “I-- Jesus, I don’t know what to say.”

“Did you know him?”

He shrugs. “As much as you can know a dickhead who totally laid you out for defending a bunch of kids.”

“Are you saying you’ve been knocked out more than once? No wonder—”

“Dustin makes fun of me all the time? Yeah.”

She laughs. “I was going to say, no wonder the doctors want to keep you overnight.”

“The doctors don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, alright? I’m fine.”

“If you’re fine, how many fingers am I holding up?” She makes a peace sign. 

“Four.”

“Steve!”

“What? Am I wrong?”

Usually she enjoys telling the dingus he’s wrong. Right now his error scares her. A reminder that heroes are human, and humans break like children’s toys worn out after too much play. She shifts in the cruddy chair. 

“Great,” Steve mutters, “I’m brain damaged. Dustin’s gonna get a kick out of this.”

She sits up. “Hey, I’m sure you’ll be back to normal soon.”

“Yeah, when? It’s been two and a half years of this bullshit. Every time I think I’m getting better, I’m actually getting worse. I used to play on the basketball team, I was the first one invited to parties, I could get girls like that,” he snaps his fingers again. “Last year? I didn’t even make the team, and the only girl I’ve ever loved _dumped_ me. Now I’m concussed cause I thought it’d be fun to help Dustin, who up until you has been my only real friend.”

Robin stands up. “Move over, would you?”

“What? Why?”

“Because my butt’s falling asleep. Come on.” Steve rolls his eyes and makes space. Although it’s a tight fit, the pressure of his shoulder against hers is comforting. “At Starcourt you told me to catch up. Well, we’ve got all the time in the world. I want to hear everything.”

“About what, my miserable existence?”

“Your existence isn’t miserable,” she says, “it’s just hard. I wanna hear about the past two years. What you used to be like, what happened, and what it’s like now.”

“I’m really not supposed to talk about this stuff. With anyone.”

“It’s not going to be a secret anymore, is it? A humongous monster keeled over in the Starcourt atrium. People are going to find out.”

“You’d be surprised what this town can cover up.” He looks at her. They are quite a pair in matching uniforms, soiled and reeking from accumulated sweat, puke and blood. "I guess you deserve a little explanation."

She smiles. “You think?”

* * *

Around the part where Will’s fake body is dredged out of the quarry a receptionist comes knocking. Robin’s dad is here to pick her up. She hesitates, doubtful she’s ready to go home and unsure if Steve should be left alone. “Call me once you get home tomorrow, alright?”

“Sure.”

She’s one foot out the door when he calls her name. Peeking back into the room is like seeing him for the first time. A child with chest hair, body bigger than his intelligence yet too small for his heart. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

* * *

By the time they get home Robin is ravenous. She gorges herself on leftovers and downs three glasses of water in a row. Her father’s already gone back to bed, so it’s her mother watching her from across the table in their well-lit kitchen. It’s way too late-- or early?-- for all these lights, but growing up with one deaf parent and two deaf siblings has made her used to it.

Robin’s mother catches her eyes and signs worriedly, “Where were you?”

Ugh. She really doesn’t want to put down her fork, let alone explain this mess. Same way Steve owed her an explanation earlier, she owes one to this poor woman who hasn’t seen her in days. Robin wipes her hands on a napkin and signs, “Remember last year, that story about Hawkins Energy Lab?” Her mother nods. “Well, there was something like that under Starcourt.”

“In the basement?” her mom asks. Yes or no questions are always marked by upward eyebrows. A surprised look like, _really_? The woman certainly has a right to be surprised. She adjusts the collar of her floral robe and waits expectantly.

Robin’s hands fly until grey leaks into the atmosphere around the trees. Eventually her mom is satisfied and clears Robin’s plates from the table. Then faces her daughter. “I’m glad you’re safe. Now go to sleep, and _please_ ,” she emphasizes, “throw that uniform out!”

They laugh and trudge upstairs together. In the hallway her mom provides the warmest, most needed hug ever. If only that would erase the past forty-eight hours.

The moment her bedroom door closes Robin dives onto her mattress and cries.


	4. Jonathan

“Where’s Nancy?” he asks dryly. He is lying in a hospital bed in a military guarded wing. Each breath is stinging shallow. 

“Jonathan…”

“She was at the cabin with us, where is she?”

His mother bites her lip but doesn’t answer.

“Tell me!”

She flinches and begins to cry. “Sweetie, Nancy was one of them.”

He chokes on the panic rising in his throat. “One of-- of who?”

“The people who made up the Mind Flayer.” His mother takes a shaky breath. “When we closed the gate, the Flayer died. Everyone who was inside is gone.”

He can’t move.

Distantly his mother says, “I’m so, so sorry.”

He vomits onto his chest.

  
  



	5. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “Mother’s Little Helper”, Rolling Stones, 1966  
> Song Credit: “Dancing in the Dark”, Bruce Springsteen, 1984  
> [Spotify link in work summary]

Friday at noon Robin bounces into the room and drops a worn backpack onto his bed. “Hope you like what I packed.”

“Man, you’re awesome.” He unzips it eagerly. An hour ago he called in a favor. She's the only one he'd ever trust going into his bedroom and driving his car. Hell, Nancy was the love of his life, but he’d cringed at the idea of her interacting with his parents, always afraid they'd say something to tip her off that yeah, Steve Harrington really is an idiot. He was afraid she'd dump him and find a smarter guy. Then it happened. Blindsided as he was, being called bullshit wasn't a surprise. He'd been called worse by his father, and his mother never stood up for him. Why should she when the man was right?

If Nancy was regal, Robin is real. Bloody and bound by ropes they accepted death-- together. Maybe it was the drugs, but he'd never felt as secure as he did in that moment with her, and the moments that followed. He almost felt _held_. Funny thing is, touch had nothing to do with it. Never will. She's not into his looks, which makes her defense of him invaluable; she isn't helping him for any reason other than friendship. Of course he trusts her to show up unannounced at his doorstep and ask his mother for entry.

“So, you neglected to mention your mom’s a dud.”

This is the first time he’s seen Robin in real clothes with her hair tied up. So what if she’s into girls? A guy can still look. _Wow,_ he marvels. _Boobs_.

He pulls off his shirt and says, "Hey, at least she gave you the spare keys so you could get the car. Told you she wouldn’t care.”

Robin turns around. He wonders if it's to give him privacy, or because of the ugly bruises on his stomach. “She didn’t seem to care about anything. Like, not even the fact that you’re _here_.”

“What can I say? She probably doesn’t.” After tugging on a clean shirt he elaborates. “She was probably high. That woman’s the epitome of ‘Mother’s Little Helper’.”

"Like the song?"

"Exactly!" He belts out, " _Doctor p_ _leeeease, some more of these..."_

She adds, “ _Outside the door, she took four more...”_

And they finish together: “ _What a drag it is getting old!_ ” 

Laughter stretches the stitched skin under his lip. But it's the best medicine, right? At the very least it’s a good way to avoid whatever he’d feel if he actually looked at how his parents treat him.

Once he's decent he balls up the Scoops uniform and dunks it into the trash. They start down the hall. Robin is inquiring where they're going next when they hear Mrs. Byers a few doors down.

“Jonathan, please. I told El you'd stay with her while I go talk to Karen.”

“Why?" he asks bitterly. "To tell her Nancy's dead?"

The teens share a glance. Nancy? Last Steve heard she was… Actually, he can’t recall. She and Jonathan were definitely mentioned yesterday at Starcourt, when Scoops and the Griswold Family meshed with the adults. What was said? He has no idea.

“She thinks Nancy’s _missing_ ,” Mrs. Byers points out.

“So you’re going to march over there and tell her the truth? That Nancy’s body morphed into a monster along with half this fucked up town, and now that monster’s probably being disassembled by chainsaws? She’s going to think you’re a freak.”

“Well, I am! And I’m not going to let a terrified mother believe her child is missing when she's not. Karen deserves the truth as soon as possible, just like I deserved to know what happened to Will.”

Jonathan is quiet.

“Stay here and get some rest. I’ll figure something out.” She exits the room and shuts the door behind her, then startles.

Robin holds her hands up in surrender. “We weren’t trying to be rude or anything, we were on our way out, and--”

“Nancy’s dead?” Steve says breathlessly.

Mrs. Byers’s surprise is replaced by a fragile smile. She nods. “She was Flayed.”

“That-- that can’t be--”

“Steve, I would never lie to you.”

Right, because that’s the rule with these people.

He clears his throat. “Well, uh, thanks for telling me.”

Mrs. Byers is wearing a pair of scrubs someone must have loaned her. She frowns. “I wish I didn't have to. Listen, I'm not sure what you heard, but I need someone to stay with El for an hour. She woke up a little while ago from surgery and I just... As a mother, I don't think this can wait.”

He's about to ask what the surgery was for when Robin blurts, "We’d love to stay with El."

Hilarious. The one who made fun of the babysitter is now the first one on the job.

* * *

El is asleep, wearing a serene expression and a bandage on her forehead. Steve studies her small form. Her left leg is propped up oddly under the thin blanket. It’s like half of it’s missing. Why would they set it that way after surgery? He edges closer.

_Surgery._

“Shit, Robin!”

“Shush, she's resting.”

“Her leg! It’s-- oh, God, it’s not there. Her leg’s not there!” He turns away from the bed and runs a hand through his hair, then spins back around to gesture wildly. “Are you seeing this!?”

“Yes, I see.” Robin scans the room and locates the clipboard that details El’s condition. She flips through studiously. “Unilateral amputation below the knee. Left side.”

Steve covers his mouth. “What happened?”

“‘Infected wound.' Wasn’t she bitten by the Flayer?”

“I don’t-- I don’t remember. Jesus, what’s wrong with me!?”

Robin returns the clipboard to its place by the bed. "Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re fine.”

“No, no, I’m not fine. I’m not fine, none of this is fine. Nancy’s dead, El’s leg is gone, and I-- shit, I can't be here!” He bolts for the door.

“Hey!” she catches his arm. “Do you really want her waking up after losing half her leg to see some girl she’s only met once? You are not abandoning her, and you are _not_ acting like this when she wakes up.”

Steve holds his breath. His lips slide into an ugly grimace as his eyes search the space around Robin, like she suddenly disappeared. There is nothing to hold onto. He clutches his chest and issues an involuntary bark that startles her, then doubles over, yanking at the collar of his shirt. “I can’t--”

“Can’t what?” Robin grabs his shoulders. “Stop freaking out!”

Violently he rears away and sinks to the floor. “I can’t breathe! I can’t brea-- shit, shit, _shit_!”

She watches for a moment before crouching down beside him. “You're right, you're not fine. Follow me, okay?” She exaggerates an inhale and exhales twice as long. Steve’s inhale is a sharp gasp, the exhale a heave, like he full on sprinted a 400 meter dash.

“Good. Again.”

“What’s wrong?”

Robin jumps. "El! You're awake."

She nods. Her worried gaze settles onto Steve.

“Oh, he’s just… tired.”

“Lie.”

The party’s favorite phrase. Blood rushes against Steve's eardrums. He swallows hard. “Not a lie.”

“But there’s more?”

He nods. “Way more.”

El understands. She shifts to get comfortable and notices her leg propped up. Her face twists. Within seconds her breathing is as labored as his. Either this is the first time she's seeing her leg or she had forgotten about it in sleep. His attention shifts to her. The room spins as he rushes to a stand and careens over to one of the two chairs, where he catches his breath before pulling it up to the bed.

Yipping with pain, El tries and fails to lean far enough forward to touch her leg.

“Hey,” Steve says, “there’s nothing you can do about that right now. Look at me.”

She does, and he is smacked with the reality that this is way above their skill set. Sure, he and Robin can protect kids, but how do you calm down a girl who woke up to remember she had a chunk of her body sawed off?

“You’re safe,” is all he can think to say. At least it’s true.

On the other side of the bed is an end table with a miniature pitcher of water and paper cups. Robin fills one. “You know, when I was in third grade I had to get my tonsils taken out, and I remember waking up feeling confused, and--”

“Tom-sells?” El squints.

“--drinking water made it better. It brought me back to this world.” She brings the cup to El’s mouth, where it’s slapped away. She meant unconscious, obviously, not literally in another world. Too bad El has no sense of metaphors and Robin, who volunteered them for this job, has no clue what to do. “Sorry,” she utters awkwardly, “I--”

“Rob,” Steve calls. He motions to the remaining chair by the door and she hurries to pull it up next to the bedside table, so they guard El on either side like sentinels. It’s hard to tell if their presence overwhelms her. She blinks hard. Tears roll down her cheeks, where locks of hair cling to the wetness. Robin’s hand twitches as if she’s going to smooth it out.

Luckily she rethinks this. “My Dad was playing a song in the car earlier, and it’s stuck in my head.”

“Song?”

“Uh-huh. Mind if we sing it?”

“We?”

El turns to Steve. “ _You_ sing?”

Before he can deny it, Robin taps a gentle beat with her toes. She hums a familiar tune slower than it’s meant to be. The title is another thing Steve can’t recall, even when she starts to sing, “ _I get up in the evening, and I ain’t got nothin to say. I come home in the morning, I go to bed feeling the same way…_ ”

Blips of lyrics come to mind in spite of himself. He harmonizes with her raspy voice, humming the parts he forgets. “ _Hey there, baby, I could use just a little help…”_

El hangs her head and sobs, her hands working the air in her lap, desperate for something to hold onto. Steve offers his hand. She slips her fingers between his the same way she’d hold hands with Mike. He doesn’t correct it, just rubs the back of her palm with his thumb. 

“ _I check my look in the mirror, I want to change my clothes, my hair, my face. Man I ain’t goin nowhere…”_

Each new sob is the crest of a larger wave. Across the bed Robin takes El’s other hand and so the three are firmly linked.

_“You can’t start a fire… you can’t start a fire without a spark…_

_“This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just dancing in the dark.”_


	6. Mike

The doorbell rings while he’s upstairs on the phone with Will. He’d sneaked into his parents’ bedroom because he didn’t want his mother to know he was awake. Really, he’d rather not interact with her at all. She’s smart enough to know that a missing kid in Hawkins is a way bigger deal than people make it out to be, and didn’t sleep a wink after the police came to drop off Mike.

Mike didn’t sleep, either. The darkness of his room was a prison. At dawn the birds began to sing. Their high pitch calls popped like fireworks, and their chatter reminded him of the Mind Flayer. _Reminded him_? Please, he hadn’t gotten the image out of his throbbing head.

He sets the receiver down and tiptoes to the top of the stairs. Mrs. Byers? Didn’t Will just say she’s at the hospital? If she’s here, who’s with El?

The moms sit in the living room. Mike floats halfway downstairs before planting himself in a perfect spot to eavesdrop.

“When I start talking,” Mrs. Byers says, “you are going to think I'm lying, but I'm not. Okay? I'm not.”

“Joyce, you’re freaking me out. If you know where Nancy is, please just tell me.”

Mike’s heart races. Is Mrs. Byers seriously going to tell his mother the truth?

“She’s dead, Karen.”

Apparently.

His mother makes a strangled sound and suddenly Mike knows this isn’t a conversation fit for a child to overhear. It’s the mid-day delivery of a death notification. “How--? Is this like what happened to Barbara?”

“Yes and no. I’m going to tell you everything they’re not going to. It’s what I would’ve wanted the week that Will was dead.”

“But he wasn’t dead, Joyce! You’re telling me Nancy _is_?”

“Listen to me,” Mrs. Byers says softly.

And she does. From the beginning, each detail is accounted for-- even some Mike wasn’t privy to. Eleven escaping a burger joint before the boys found her drenched in the woods that night, why Mike hid her in the basement. Why she was born with powers. Nancy hunting the monster that took Barb that night she was partying with Steve, and how Steve later helped she and Jonathan catch the Demogorgon. Everything, amalgamated from stories Mrs. Byers collected over the past two years by listening to her children.

There are a few places where his mother stops her because it’s too far fetched or too painful. Ultimately she listens through to the end, and after a pause long enough to digest at least a morsel she stammers, “My— my _children_ were involved in this? And I didn’t know?”

“None of this is your fault. We had no control, we couldn’t have known.”

“Michael hid that girl, he hid her _here_ in our home!”

“Karen, he didn’t know,” Mrs. Byers says urgently.

“This isn’t happening,” his mother whines. “Oh, my God, this isn’t happening! I need to get into that mall and find her!”

“We can go to Starcourt to see the monster before they get rid of it, but we're not going to find Nancy.”

“You said she’s in there! My daughter’s in there, they can’t just get rid of her!”

“Nancy was inside the monster. It’s the monster’s body in that mall, Karen. There is nothing of Nancy to recover. As one mom to another, please just _trust_ me. I’m telling you the truth.”

His mom inhales, then moans like a person drowning. Mike’s stomach turns. This isn’t how she cried when grandpa died. This isn’t even his mother. Karen is a woman he’s never met, one with her own beliefs and history, all of which are rewritten in this moment that they were never meant to share.

Slowly Mike turns to the wall and rests his head against it, squeezing his eyes to stop the tears. He’s got no right to cry when it’s true: he brought El home. The most important thing in his life is the reason the monster stayed. Banishing it almost took Will last year. Killing it yesterday took Nancy. Is her death going to take his mom, too?

How could he do this to his family? How could he have been so stupid? This wouldn’t have happened if he were smarter. His mother wouldn’t be coughing out sobs on behalf of the dead daughter’s body she’ll never see.

Mike holds his stomach, every muscle tensed against the onslaught of horror. Emotion climbs his throat and burns until he has to breathe. Tears escape defiantly.


	7. Dustin

“I feel so bad for poor Joyce,” his mother sighs from the armchair. “When she told me that little girl’s father died, how she had to go into surgery-- of _course_ we can watch Will while things get settled, right?”

Tews is purring on her lap. Dustin sits on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to better see the TV. There’ve been around the clock reports. He’s glad Will’s resting now, because he looked frayed at the edges while they watched during lunch.

“Of course we can,” he affirms, eyes fixed forward. “El needs a mom right now, and Mrs. Byers is unequivocally the best one for the job.”

In his periphery she nods. “Say Dusty, why don’t you invite your friends over tonight? We can order pizza. That’ll lift everyone’s spirits.”

“Great idea, Mom, except Lucas is grounded and no one can reach Max.”

“Max? You mean Maxine Mayfield?”

This gives him reason to pry his eyes off the TV. “Yeah, why?”

“Her mother is in my book club!”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re in a book club with Max’s mom, and I’m just finding out about this _now?_ ”

She chuckles rosily. “Well, you are a very busy boy.”

“Mother, this is no laughing matter. If you seriously think you can get Max out of that godforsaken house for a few hours, then get on the phone and start dialing!”

* * *

It’s Ted who answers the door at five o’clock. Dustin swears under his breath, watching from the passenger’s seat through binoculars.

Why didn't he walk up to the door with Will? Seemed like they deserved a moment.

Mike doesn’t come to the door, though. Will turns around and holds up a hand. _One minute_. He disappears inside as Ted gives a halfhearted wave to Dustin’s mom. Even through magnifying lenses there is scarcely an ounce of emotion on that bastard’s face. Doesn’t he know about Nancy?

As promised, Will returns a minute later with Mike in tow, boasting a garish bruise on his face. Based on height you’d think Mike’s halfway out of high school, but compare his current disposition to Will’s and it’s clear who’s smaller.

“Suspicious.”

“What is?” his mother asks.

“Oh, just that these two continue to masquerade as friends when it’s clear their bond goes beyond anything Lucas or I could ever offer.”

“Dusty, what on _earth_ are you talking about?”

“Forget it.” He drops the binoculars around his neck and cheerfully greets Mike as he and Will climb into the backseat.

Mike’s answer is a head nod followed by a foggy, “Thanks, Mrs. Henderson.”

Fully turned around in his seat Dustin has a good view of Will but not Mike, who’s staring out the window behind him on the passenger side. So he looks at Will, who glances down at his lap. He’s tapping out a code! It takes Dustin a moment to catch on. When he figures it out he wishes he didn’t.

_NOT OKAY._

* * *

Surviving a Russian ventilation system and a thirty foot tall monster has him ready to party. Unfortunately Dustin is alone in this exuberance, which definitely pisses Max off at dinner. She nibbles on a slice of pizza and then rushes to the bathroom.

Once she returns to the table, his mom pours her a cup of ginger ale and rubs her back. “Mike, is something the matter with the food?”

“No, sorry.” He didn’t even bother grabbing a slice. 

“Oh, don’t apologize! Is there anything else I can fix you up?”

“No, thanks,” he says to the table, “I’m really not hungry.”

“Me either,” Max adds.

Carefully Will chews the crust of his first slice, like any sudden movement might blow these two away. Mike and Max lift their eyes to each other’s. “Can we go for a walk?” she asks. “Just us?”

Mike nods.

Still at Max’s side, Dustin’s mom says, “Around the yard and no further. I’ll be checking on you through the windows.” She takes their plates. “Be back inside by seven, okay?”

“Okay,” they echo numbly.

Dustin pushes his chair back from the table and Will stops him. “They don’t want us to come.” 

“Sorry,” Max confirms. “We won’t be long.”

* * *

But they are long. By the time they shuffle through the front door Dustin’s found something on TV and is simmering with resentment. How could they exclude he and Will? There are no secrets in this party, and it’s high time to catch up on everything they missed in each other’s lives this week. With only an hour left before it’s time to drive them home, they better get talking.

Max sits in the armchair while Mike sits next to Will, their legs pressed together. It’s been months since he’s seen them this close and to be honest, he’s missed it. Mike is a better friend when Will’s around. El turns him into a bumbling buffoon who’s never heard the word _friend_.

“Okay, finally,” Dustin begins, “I can tell you how we figured out the Russians were opening the gate. It was actually--”

“Can we please just watch TV?” Mike groans.

“What! No we can’t just watch TV, we need to get on the same page.”

“No,” Max says, “we really don’t.”

“And why the hell not?”

Mike leans back against the couch. “The details don’t matter. It’s over.”

A fluffball of orange jingles into the room.

“Tews!” Max reaches toward the floor to attract her attention. “Come here, Tews.” Always a lush, the cat jumps onto her lap and stretches out like a worshipper. Such a simple life.

Wouldn’t it be nice?

* * *

That night Dustin leans over the side of his bed, postponing lights out. “I still can’t believe their audacity to exclude us. And Mike not wanting to hear my story?”

“We aren’t experiencing the same thing they are,” Will says tiredly from his sleeping bag.

“Last time I checked we were all at Starcourt yesterday night.”

“It’s different this time.” He turns his head on the pillow. The dim red heat lamp over Yurtle’s terrarium hums. “When it was just me, it was… just me. This time everyone’s affected.”

“Yeah, all the more reason we should be sticking together!”

“Why would we start doing that now when we haven’t been? The party isn’t what it was last year. Did you know Mike had no idea where you were this week, and he didn’t care? Kissing El is more important than you, and I— I thought it was more important than me.”

”What the hell does that mean?”

He takes a deep breath and blatantly ignores the question. “We’ve been falling apart. That’s why we lost people, and that’s why it’s different this time.”

A hard pill to swallow. “He really didn’t care about me?”

“No, he was too distracted by El.”

“Shit, and here I was thinking you guys missed me.”

“If it means anything, I did.”

“Thanks.” Dustin’s smile fades quickly. “You know, losing people is kind of par for the course when you’re saving the world. How many times were we going to face the Mind Flayer and its minions before someone got taken out? Maybe it has nothing to do with whether or not the party is functioning.”

Will sits up. “I doubt you’d be saying that if Steve died.”

“Well Steve didn’t die, and he isn’t going to, okay?”

“First, you don't know that. And second, other people did! When I went inside to get Mike he was just lying on the couch in the basement, in the dark.”

“Sleeping?”

“No. Clearly you didn’t notice he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He hasn’t slept, eaten, or done anything that might reset the date and make this real. I was hoping him talking to Max would help since they both lost a sibling.”

“Please,” Dustin rolls his eyes. “Billy was a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, who lived in her home. She has to deal with the fallout of his death, and Neil won’t have the benefit of going inside Starcourt like Mrs. Wheeler.”

“Mrs. Wheeler got into the mall?”

“Mike said my mom took her tonight to see the proof. She was already gone when we picked him up.” Will lays back down, rustling the sleeping bag until he’s buried inside. “We should sleep.”

Dustin turns off the light lays down. Of Will’s whole lecture there is one sure thing: it _is_ different this time. But he thinks his point should be credited, too. Really, how many times can a group of people challenge the universe and dominate it? Two Christmases in a row they got to gloat that they’d faced hell and made it back in time to open presents. Not everyone’s making it to presents this year. Not everyone saw fireworks. It sucks, but it makes sense.

He wonders what the dead sibling club talked about, and regrets not sneaking outside to listen in. The party is fragmented, but this could bring them closer. Maybe Mike and Max got over their differences tonight. He remembers when he hated Max because he thought she was taking El’s place. Then he got El and, like Will said, stopped giving a shit about the group. He is called Will the Wise for a reason.

What is it going to be like now that El’s lost Hopper, and her lower leg? Are she and Mike going to get back together, or fall further apart? For now it seems like Mike is taking refuge in his beyond-friendship with Will, which is way better than putting his upset on El. Is it fair to Will, though? Mike can’t just decide to spend more time with him when it’s convenient for him-- even if convenient happens to be a cataclysm.

In the dark of his room Dustin recalls dropping Mike off at the Wheeler’s tonight. He had slept in the car so Will walked him to the front door. Naturally, Dustin studied them once more through binoculars. By the floodlight he saw Mike’s hand rest on the doorknob. Will touched his arm and leaned in to say something that made him shake his head. Then Will said something that made his hand move from the doorknob to Will’s shoulder. In an instant they were chest to chest, Mike’s face buried in Will’s awfully outdated hair.

“Can I ask you something?” Dustin says to the silence.

Will grumbles, “If you promise to let me sleep after.”

“Sure, sure. What did you say to Mike on his doorstep earlier?”

A pause. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”

“You agreed to one question!”

“Fine! I asked if he wanted me to walk him inside. Then I told him…” he sighs. “I said to call me if things get worse.”

Mark this as the first and only time Will Byers told a lie.


	8. Max

Max admits that Neil hit her last night when she couldn't answer his hundred questions about the explosion that killed his son at the mall. Surprisingly Mike listens without interrupting as they walk laps around Dustin’s serene yard. Crickets and peepers keep time with the conversation while dusk sucks away the sun. The darker the details, the darker the sky, and the darker Mike’s drawn face. “Why don’t you report him?” he asks, rubbing his cheek. The scab is small but the bruise overwhelms his face. Max is surprised his cheekbone didn’t snap when Billy slammed him against the wall. 

"Pretty sure the police have bigger fish to fry than Neil Hargrove," she groans.

“Who cares? He should be put away. You and your mom deserve better.”

“A lot of people deserve better, Mike. Billy deserved better, and your sister _definitely_ did.”

He stops abruptly and closes his eyes.

"Shit," she sighs, "I'm sorry." They’re supposed to be having a relaxing time at Dustin’s, taking a breather from the horror of their home lives, and here she is bluntly reminding him that his sister is dead.

“Sorry for what?”

“Everything? I’m sorry about everything.” In her head she runs down the checklist of sorry’s and could-have-been’s. She was awake all night going through them. One item nagged more than the others. “Remember how Nancy and I said El is her own person with her own free will?”

He opens his eyes. “Yeah, and how I should trust her even if her choice to put herself in danger is stupid?”

“It was stupid, and we were wrong. El isn’t her own person with her own free will. Not yet, at least.”

His face scrunches. “It took almost losing her for you to figure that out? You know, I’ve never wanted to hide her or stop her from being who she is. I just wanted to protect her from everyone’s greedy hands and I couldn’t, and I hate myself for it!”

“Jesus Mike, this isn’t your fault! She is _so_ not herself that even the choice you gave her to find Billy wasn’t a choice. In her mind, if she didn’t help she risked losing her friends, her new home, and maybe even _you._ ”

“No, she knows she wouldn’t lose me,” he insists. “And what do you mean she’s not herself? She’s El.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Really? Tell me about her, then. What does she like to do? What music makes her dance, how many books has she read and what food grosses her out?”

He hopelessly fumbles for answers. She folds her arms across her chest. “After spending every day for six months with her, you seriously can’t answer those questions?”

“No, but not because I don’t pay attention. It’s because--”

“-- _she_ doesn’t know. And how is she ever going to find out when all she does is make out with you and stay holed up in a cabin because her so-called dad is too scared to let her live?”

“Hopper wanted to protect her.”

“You keep using this word protect like you know what it means!” she laughs. “Protecting someone isn’t about keeping them locked up or stopping them from making their own decisions. It’s about being honest and _helping_ them make decisions, and standing by them no matter what. Did Hopper ever actually talk to her? Did _you_?”

His eyes shine with tears, so she drops it. They share silence and start walking again, wrapping around the house to the front door. Maybe Mike's love of El isn’t solely about her power and beauty, but it isn’t founded in anything healthy, either. From what Max understands, Mike was the first kid El met outside the lab, the first boy to show her kindness. She responded to kindness with loyalty-- a shared trait between them. Sweet, right? Not when their love bloomed in crisis. They were never friends, and if there’s something Max understands from watching her mom date dickhead after dickhead, it’s that good relationships are friends first. Like she and Lucas, who is currently grounded and miserable with only Erica for company.

Apologetically Mike says, “Her leg had to be removed, you know."

Max halts and her eyes bulge. “Wait, _what?_ The whole thing?”

“Only the bottom, I guess.”

“Oh, my God. I cut her leg open at the mall!” She’s crying before the weight of it registers.

“Don’t feel guilty,” he assures her. “I’m sure it was because of the bite. Besides, you were only trying to help.”

“Yeah, and some help I was.”

Since Nancy was Flayed and Jonathan was immobile, it was Max who drove them to the mall. It was Max who cared for El’s leg and tried to extract the creature in there. If she had known that it would cost El her leg, maybe she wouldn’t have done it. Maybe the creature would have worked itself out on its own. All impossibilities that are a waste of her energy, because what happened is where they are now.

Painstakingly they walk onward, Max still crying. A minute later Mike says, “Sometimes I wonder what we’d be doing if she’d never escaped from the lab.”

A shocking confession that stops her tears. Max is in no position to judge; she has no reference for what Hawkins might have been. The only Hawkins she’s experienced is one where a group of weirdos has enough brain power to save their friends from being literally dragged into a different dimension. She does, however, have a reference for what normal life is. Skating with her friends near the beach, doing homework on the roof outside her bedroom to avoid Billy’s blaring metal. Normal.

For a minute last fall Hawkins resembled normalcy, but it’s over. At least she had it. El’s normal has always been a life like a machine. What was it like being raised as a weapon? All she knew was darkness, so what new horror led her to plan an escape, and did it hurt? Max has heard the story of how the boys found her, how she had the vocabulary of a preschooler and couldn’t tell time. Hard to stand that up next to the image of El ripping appendages off the Flayer with her mind.

“Do you think we’d be happy?” Max asks.

“ _We_ might be. El would probably be dead, although maybe death is better than what she’s going through now.” He catches the severity of those words and backpedals. “I don’t mean I wish she was dead, I mean--”

“I get it. You wish she weren’t suffering.”

They’re outside the door now, under the carport. Inside Dustin and Will are plopped in the middle of the couch. The living room is cozy and golden, unlike the white smoke den that is Neil’s home. He bought it, her mother said. His name is on all the papers. She and her mother have nothing, and therefore Neil owns them. That was bad enough _before_ Billy was violently killed. Sacrificed, rather. For El.

Fate burdens the chosen. They must endure, survive, bear weight enough to break bone. It’s a question of how much, how badly, and how resilient they are. Who decides? Who decides how much suffering a person can take, and when it stops? Who decides whether they give up or go on living, and at what point does living simply become the suffering itself?

* * *

Mike and Will take the backseat to give Max shotgun. The radio is off and Mrs. Henderson makes quiet smalltalk with her about skateboarding. At one point she pauses to adjust the rearview mirror. “Good,” she whispers pleasantly, “he’s resting.”

Max turns around to see Mike stretched across the seat with his head on Will’s lap. His eyes are closed and Will is stroking a lock of hair away from his forehead. Their eyes meet for a moment and she reads an assurance there, like Mike is truly _his_ and he’s proud to be a source of calm for his best friend.

Are they just friends? If she had a quarter for every time Neil and Billy called guys faggots she’d be queen of the arcade-- Max _knows_ what gay means. Last December at the Snow Ball Will’s gaze strayed from the girl he was dancing with onto Mike and El, like he wanted to _be_ her. Will wasn’t watching she and Lucas; he must not think of Lucas that way. Only Mike.

Naturally Will could never envy or hate El. She’s the reason he’s alive-- literally. Plus, he knows it isn’t her fault that Mike ignores him when she’s around. Is he jealous that he kisses her? Does he watch them hold hands and long for it? If he does, tonight that longing is fulfilled by comforting Mike in some small way.

 _They’d make a better couple than Mike and El_ , she thinks, because they were friends first. Equals. Last year nobody else could touch Will when he would go into those weird trances. They understood each other wordlessly. Mike protected Will.

He can’t protect El. Max wonders if she even wants to get back together with Mike now that she’s had a taste of actual friendship. Even after Chief Hopper adopted her, Mike was the only person she saw. El’s isolation never sat right with Max, who waited patiently and hoped El would some day come around and be her friend.

She faces forward and watches houses pass. Most are dark, and she wonders how many of the people who lived there melted into the Flayer and died. It’s seriously surprising almost the entire party made it out alive.

Luckily Mike has another ten minutes of bliss ahead before he’s home, too, and the both of them are once again crushed under the insurmountable weight of compounded loss.


	9. Karen

Outside the mall, Joyce introduces her to an odd man named Murray Bauman, who calls into a radio for some Dr. Owens.

There are doctors here?

Murray says something Karen can’t receive. She watches him speak without listening, thinking he looks familiar. Did she see him at the Independence Day festival? Was that really yesterday? Anything before learning of Nancy’s death is hazy. She’s still wishing it’s a joke, but her gut knows better.

“How are you feeling, Karen?” he repeats.

“Oh, sorry.” She wrings her hands, wishing she’d carried her purse from the car to have something to hold. Joyce insisted there would be no need. Karen trusts her; she’s come to admire Joyce, in a way, because she self-advocates. Once her husband left she raised two intelligent, compassionate boys. She knew Will well enough to believe beyond a doubt he was alive even though the coroner showed her his body-- which, according to the story, Chief Hopper discovered was a fake.

“I’m just… here,” she finally answers.

Murray nods. “I’m so sorry to hear about Nancy. She was a bright girl.”

“You knew her?”

“Briefly, yes. She and Jonathan came out to see me last year in regards to Barbara Holland. Your daughter was integral in disseminating the truth.”

Karen swallows this. She is a shameful parent. How long has she cited Ted as the disconnected one? Really it is _she_ who neglected her children under the guise of trusting them. Nancy and Michael are good kids. How could they get mixed up in all this and not tell her? And how on God’s Earth did she not _see_ this?

A man appears in a hazmat suit, takes off his cap and gloves and extends a hand to Karen. “Sam Owens, head of damage control. I understand you lost your daughter.”

She shakes his hand limply. “I’m hoping it’s not true.”

He frowns. “Unfortunately, I’m certain whatever Joyce told you earlier is true. Are you ready to see the proof?”

Dr. Owens, Mr. Bauman, and Joyce all wear expressions she can’t read. Uncertainty? Pity? She doesn’t want pity, she wants answers.

“Yes,” she nods. “I’m ready.”

* * *

As they tour the atrium in protective suits, Dr. Owens explains how his team is running DNA tests on cross sections of the monster in hopes to confirm the deaths of the hundred some-odd missing townspeople, although they feel confident the human bones they’ve found sticking out of various spots of coagulated flesh is proof enough. Murray procures what looks like a femur bone from somewhere. It’s real enough to her.

The monster looks like several fallen trees piled together, swampy and rotting. Comprehending its validity is as challenging as comprehending her daughter’s death. Is this not some larger-than-life model meant to be displayed at the festival? She watches workers buzz around it, drill into it with machines and at one point a chainsaw. The loud squelch startles her. This is no model. It’s real, and it got Nancy. What did it do to get inside of her? Was it like Joyce said earlier, how Will swallowed smoke and was possessed? Or was it a bite, some amount of poison irreversible? Karen won’t demand details. She’s choked up on the worst part-- that she wasn’t there. She’ll never know how scared Nancy was, what her last thoughts were, or whether she died alone. Her best efforts as a mother have failed.

“Now, I’m assuming you’d like to know what exactly the--" Dr. Owens turns to Joyce "--what are the kids calling it?” 

”Flayer. Like the Mind Flayer from their Dungeons and Dragons game.”

“Right,” Owens nods. “I’m assuming you’d like to know what the Flayer is.”

“Yes.”

“Easiest way to understand it is, it’s a physical embodiment of a spiritual entity from another realm. And as long as you’ve got those gloves on you may touch it. There’s nothing it can do to you now.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Murray edges in. “This world we live in isn’t the only one, Mrs. Wheeler. Our lovely monster here came through a broken barrier.”

“How?”

“Remember I told you about the gate?” Joyce prompts. “How the Russians were trying to tap into the other world— the Upside Down— through this gate in Hawkins so they could weaponize its powers?”

Karen’s head spins. “No, I don’t… I need to sit down.”

Graciously Joyce walks her over to one of the last standing food court seats. After a minute the scene becomes clear again. Karen notices a sectioned off area with a crime-scene outline of a body, accented by dried black liquid. “Why is that area sectioned off?”

“Well, out of all the people who were flayed only one body was kept intact by the Flayer so it could use the human form to interact with El. Its goal was to lure her to where the big monster could get her. In the end El managed to connect with the boy whose body the Flayer was using. He held off the Flayer long enough to let her live, but it killed him.”

“Who’s _him_?”

Her mouth twitches. “Oh, I don’t know if I should talk about the other people involved.”

“Believe me, this isn’t a topic I'll gossip about at the pool.”

“Alright... A boy named Billy Hargrove.”

She gasps. “Billy?” When Joyce tilts her head curiously she explains, “He was a lifeguard. I used to see him when I took Holly.”

“I’m sorry.”

Karen weeps about the teenager she stood up. How close she came to infidelity! All that time could have been spent focusing on her kids. Although stress has aged Joyce immensely in two years, she had the privilege of being involved in this. Her children are alive and safe because she sensed danger and fought against it. Karen has been absent, selfish.

“Are you sure you’re okay being in here? We can leave at any time. I just wanted to give you the chance to see it, to know I was telling the truth.”

She sniffles. “I believe you.”

Joyce rubs her back reassuringly and Karen realizes she’s been without such kind gestures for longer than she can remember.

* * *

When she gets home she checks the basement for Mike. Earlier today, after Joyce left but before Karen called to accept the offer to see the monster, she experienced a period of disorienting numbness. During that time she had carried the laundry downstairs to the basement and was surprised to see Mike there-- despite it being his domain. He was lying on his back on the couch, his body so slight it blended into the cushion. If they spoke she has no memory of it; she was there and then upstairs again, and the laundry never made it into the machine.

Presently the basement is empty. She instead mounts the stairs and wills herself past Nancy’s closed door to check his. Again, an empty room. Now Karen understands Joyce’s urgency and constant calling to check on her boy. Not knowing where he is rattles her.

Before she goes downstairs to check with sleeping Ted, she decides to enter Nancy’s room. There’s a split second between turning the knob and opening the door that Karen convinces herself Nancy’s inside. She isn’t. What stares back are her belongings, all exactly where they were when the monster beckoned she and how many other people to their deaths. _Billy_. They were only children.

At least his parents have the finality of a body.

She sits gingerly on the edge of Nancy’s bed and gazes around numbly, trying to glean answers from the decorated walls. _Finish it_ , she’d told Nancy. She never finished it, though. It finished her.

For some time she sits under the spell of this. Then she goes downstairs to the living room where both Ted and Holly are asleep on the recliner.

Karen roughly shakes him awake. “Where is our son?”

He stretches in the chair, bumping Holly’s head with his elbow. “Mike,” he yawns, “went to Dustin’s house.”

“He _what_?”

“I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”

Holly wakes up confused by Karen’s shouting. She climbs off Ted’s lap and gazes up at her mother. “How is he getting here? Ted, it’s dark out!”

“He’s fine, Karen.”

She reels. “You were supposed to be watching him!”

“I can’t watch him all the time. It’s been a long week.”

“My God, do you even care? Do you care that our daughter is _dead_?”

Ted rises to a stand and lays a hand on her shoulder. “She’s not dead, just missing. We aren’t sure she was even in the mall, and until we get an official report of what happened I plan to remain hopeful.”

She shrugs his hand off her shoulder. “We don’t need an official report, Ted, I saw the monster tonight when Joyce took me there.”

“Monster? Who said anything about a monster?” He chuckles. “Honey, Joyce is unstable! Keep hanging around her and you will be, too. No sense panicking yet.” He smiles down at Holly and tousles her blonde hair. “Why don’t we head upstairs to bed? We’ll all feel better in the morning.”

 _Completely untroubled,_ she thinks, as he walks upstairs. Holly follows him. How easy it must be as the man of the household, carrying an entitlement card he can flash to get around the slightest impasses. What is Karen more devastated by-- the loss of her daughter or the reality that she is trapped in a marriage with a husband who doesn’t believe her?

Their footsteps fade above her head and the front door opens.

Mike.

Karen flies from the living room to the foyer. “What on earth were you thinking?”

He startles like he forgot she lives here and stumbles back, hitting his spine on the doorknob. “Ow!”

At the sight of his hurt all sympathy falls free. Why would he think about her when she’s done nothing to warrant honesty and loyalty from her children? Evidently she mothered poorly, her work gone unnoticed and her worries unconsidered. The instinct to hold her son morphs into anger and a sick desire to familiarize him with the force of her pain. She wraps her hands clear around his biceps and yanks him to the center of the room. “You worried me!”

“Ow, that hurts!”

Her eyes widen. “Oh really, this? _This_ hurts?”

“Yes, stop!”

She digs each fingertip into his porcelain flesh. “God, you’re as weak as your father. Do you have any idea how selfish you are? Going out to see your friends while I’m left to discover all the things you never told me!” She shakes him violently. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We had to protect you!”

“We who?”

“All of us. Me, Nancy--”

“Nancy is _dead_!” she shrieks. “She’s dead, Michael. Whatever you thought you were doing, it wasn’t protecting me!”

She shoves him away. He rubs his arms as his lips spread into a disgusting, glistening pout. “Mom, I’m sorry.”

A geyser of improcessible emotion spurts up: self-loathing over her own inadequacy, resentment toward Nancy for having a hidden life, and incredulity because mother and son are _here_.

“Sorry? You knew, and you lied to me! After all the trust I put in you, believing you were going to the movies-- God, how _stupid_! You were never going to the movies, were you?”

Tears shimmer in his eyes. “Sometimes we did.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, I’m just saying--”

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Just go to your room!”

His breath hitches and a sob cuts loose. Quickly he succumbs to hyperventilation, clutching his stomach because he can’t breathe. One hand reaches out blindly for something to hold onto. Karen refuses to be his anchor, yet knows no other way to stop his crying. Tonight sanity slips away as she winds her arm back and smacks him across the mouth so hard her wedding ring draws blood.

Michael’s jaw hangs slack from shock. _Good_ , she thinks. _Let him have a taste of his own medicine_. He chokes on his spit and wipes his mouth, surprised by the blood that compliments that hideous mark on his cheek. He looks at her with red-rimmed eyes full of profound confusion.

At least the noise stopped.


	10. Jonathan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “Seasons in the Sun”, Terry Jacks, 1974  
> [Spotify link in work summary]

How could he have slept through her leaving?

He had felt the cabin rock when the Mind Flayer attacked El. By the time he was able to move from the bed to the front door they were driving away. He assumed Nancy was driving. Yesterday his mother informed him it was Max.

Nancy had been Flayed, and Jonathan missed the last moments he could have held her. She walked to her death without a choice. He imagines Nancy arriving at the warehouse against her will, tears of betrayal streaming down her face. Betrayal of her own body.

Did she die knowing he loved her?

 _She didn’t have the luxury of dying,_ he realizes. She felt herself melt to the ground.

* * *

“Knock knock!” Steve bounds into the room carrying a set of clothing. “Your mom said I should come get you. She’s saying bye to El. And, uh, these are for you.” He sets the clothes on the edge of the bed and stands there expectantly. _Eagerly._

According to Jonathan's mother, Steve stayed with El yesterday after she woke up from surgery, because Jonathan wouldn’t. It's incredible. There was a time when Jonathan prided himself on being different from Steve. Now he’s being replaced. Where did Jonathan’s character go? What purpose does he serve, as a friend, brother, and son? He hasn’t been any of these things lately and honestly, outside of Nancy he has no friends. Last year he told Will _he_ is his best friend, a lie to make the boy feel less alone. Jonathan has never known a friend. He’s claimed for years he’s fine without them, when really he’s been afraid to speak up and too busy to relax, working to help Mom with groceries and bills.

Steve had friends. He had Nancy for ten blissful months, while Jonathan only had her for eight. Calculating can’t be helped. They held too similar a position in both Nancy’s and the kids’ lives to go without comparison. Now Steve is playing big brother and garnering attention, to spite Jonathan who has been at it for years and garnered nothing. He’s never gotten a medal for doing what he’s supposed to, so why does Steve?

Slowly he configures a standing position, leaning on the bed and bracing for the effort of changing out of this awful hospital gown. First he grabs the Vicodin bottle on the bedside table and doses himself again-- two hours early, but who cares?-- while Steve watches with one eye. The other is swollen almost shut, and the stitches below his lip look grisly. Poor pretty Steve. Popular Steve. What's become of him? Instead of falling from the pedestal he became a hero, marked by bruises for his heroism, rescuing kids.

Steve motions toward the clothes. “You want help?”

“Not from you.”

“Woah, dude! I know we’re not close, but come on.”

Has he forgotten? They’re not even friends and never will be; aside from the jealousy he feels at being replaced, Jonathan is still resentful Steve bullied him, broke his camera, and called him queer the year before. He isn't upset about _what_ Steve did-- it's that Steve did these things knowing Will was missing, dead. His coming around to apologize the night Jonathan and Nancy caught the Demogorgon meant nothing. Steve had already shown his cards. To Jonathan, the things you say when you’re angry are the truest words of all.

"Whatever," Steve says with his hands up. He leaves the room and Jonathan changes slowly, waiting for the pills to bring the blanket of numbness back. “We’re picking Will up from Dustin’s, too," he calls from the hallway. "Can’t blame your brother for wanting to get out of there. I mean, I adore the kid, but sometimes people want some peace and quiet, you know?” He laughs alone. “Oh, and Robin’s gonna stay here with El so she’s not here all day by herself.”

Finally Jonathan lumbers into the hall and casts Steve a sidelong glance. “Robin?'

"Yeah, she's in your class?” Steve reads his pinched face and adds, “She worked with me at Scoops. Cracked the Russian code in like an hour.”

This is news.

They sluggishly make their way down the hall. Steve forgets Jonathan the second they enter El’s room. Do they know each other? Jonathan has yet to have a conversation with her. She’s hardly been out of Hopper’s cabin since he lured her out of the woods November of ‘83. That never sat right with Jonathan. After the exorcism last year Jonathan sat with his mother and talked about it. Did she have any idea Hopper had kept her that long? _No_ . How could Hopper believe he was protecting a girl by locking her away? _I have no idea_ . Was Mom going to step in and help El? _If he lets me_.

Naturally he didn’t, which Mom accepted because there was no sense in arguing with the Chief. Oddly, the only person other than Hopper who El got to interact with was Mike, the same kid he openly hated. Will complained to Jonathan about it once, how unfair it was that Mike was always spending time with El; he was abandoning the party instead of bringing her into it. The hint of jealousy in his voice told Jonathan it wasn’t merely about enveloping El into their lives, but he wouldn't dare pressure Will into talking about his feelings for Mike.

Although Jonathan feels bad for his mother and El because Hopper _was_ someone to them, he won’t miss Hopper one bit. Just another version of Lonnie. If Hopper could isolate El from her peers and deprive her of all the joy youthful discovery brings, he could easily have hit her, been intoxicated at home, or most egregious of all-- _touched_ her. Jonathan would never say it aloud, but he knows these things are possible from experience.

Will does, too.

“Miss you already,” Steve says as he hugs El. Somehow the action is gentle and silly. She smiles and says, “Miss you, too."

"Robin's gonna be good company, right?"

"Right," Robin says. She's sitting in a chair on the wall adjacent the door. Jonathan hadn't noticed her. Maybe the pills are working, the haze is softening the edges.

“Jonathan,” Mom prompts, “do you want to say bye to El?”

There’s nothing to say. Still, he shuffles to her bedside and feigns a grin. The effect is a crooked frown. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” she says. He doubts it. The blanket that should be covering her has been folded to the foot of the bed. It’s stuffy in here, and smells weird. The bandage on her leg looks fresh, wrapped in a sort of figure-8 fashion around her thigh and the few inches remaining below her knee. Logically he understands the lower portion is gone, yet he gapes as his primitive brain tries to compute. What comes after the rounded stump?

“You?” she asks.

He shrugs.

She starts crying. “Jonathan... I’m sorry.”

He looks away. No one is as sorry as he is. He can’t watch El cry, and can’t offer her any comfort-- especially not in front of Steve and Robin. Abruptly he turns and leaves. El cries harder behind him.

His mother catches up quickly and blocks his path. “Hey, what was that about?”

He shakes his head.

She touches his cheek because hugging him would hurt. Thousands of words crowd behind her dark eyes, the circles under which suggest decades of unrest. Logic tells Jonathan he isn’t the only one suffering. He looks at her and tries for empathy.

He can’t find it.

* * *

Ambiguous time and nothing to fill it with, no direction. Loss is like this. In the days following the dredging up of Will’s fake body in the quarry, Jonathan felt himself tugged by the tides of purposelessness and meniality. People buzzed about busily, their lives on play. His father appeared, buzzing around hostilely. Nancy suddenly talked to him and his mother was gone, all her anxiety issues from years before resurfacing.

This time, when they get home, his mother walks straight to the kitchen sink and fills a glass of water. Jonathan watches her set it down, hand lingering around the base as she stares into nothing. It’s a beautiful summer day, but ugly to them.

Finally she takes a sip of water, then turns and sets the glass on the kitchen table. She notices Jonathan and Will standing nearby and smiles feebly. “Guys, I need to be alone for a little while. Why don’t you go get some rest?” Will replies by crossing the room and hugging her. She returns the gesture fiercely and whispers, “I am _so_ grateful to have you. Do you understand? I am incredibly lucky you are my son.”

“I love you, Mom. It’s going to be okay.”

She pulls away and strokes his cheek lightly, tears rolling down her own face. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

She looks at Jonathan, inviting him in for the same affectionate sendoff. Grief and opioids have removed him. He turns and hobbles into his room, where carefully spreads out on his bed. The pillowcase smells like Nancy, that hairspray she’d taken to using to volumize her hair. Her conforming to today’s increasingly tacky beauty standards upset him, but he wasn’t going to hold his girlfriend back. Besides, would Nancy have kept her hair natural for him? No. She beat her own path, stubbornly insisting on breaking rules if it meant exposing the truth. What he loved about her also happened to be what got her killed.

 _God, why is this happening?_ he thinks. And why wasn’t it him instead?

To dispel these thoughts, Jonathan gets back up and reaches for his headphones, a slow process that hurts his stomach and steals his breath. Before he can decide which mixtape to pop in, an old riff blasts out from the living room so loud he drops the headphones. A quick _one two three four_ , repeated twice until a soft voice cuts in: _Goodbye to you my trusted friend. We’ve known each other since we were nine or ten…_

Jonathan is familiar with this record. He heard this song after her father passed away when they were small-- a man they never got to know. Might have been nice. Mom grew up in a functional family, unlike Lonnie, who brought his family dysfunction with him. When she kicked him out the music in the record player was different. Rough, motivating. Nothing like this sobering tune. He heard it after Bob died, too, even though he and Mom weren’t childhood friends. It’s her grief song. 

_Goodbye my friend, it’s hard to die…_

She’s sitting in the living room crying now, he knows it. Last fall he would have gone into the living room to hold her. Today he lays down uselessly. There is no strength inside to offer his mother, whose own strength has been sapped dry again. Jonathan used to be compassionate and helpful, to both she and Will-- who had no idea how to comfort anyone while he was still recuperating from being possessed. When Jonathan would have to work Mike would visit. Jonathan would return home and they'd be in the living room, playing games and giggling like loons. Once Chief Hopper adopted El-- sometime late December--Mike began to spend more time with her. Will complained about it at first, eventually succumbing to what he could not control. Jonathan resented Mike, because he hated seeing Will face any amount of sadness beyond what he’d already survived. But he had Nancy then, and as their relationship bloomed, his relationship with Will wilted. So, he’s the same as Mike, and now they have another thing in common: the death of Nancy Wheeler.


	11. Robin

Robin drives Steve’s car to her house. It’s getting dark, he said something about the shadows making it hard to focus on the road. She has to get used to being around traumatized people. Although she can’t picture Steve realizing it, he is. Several times during the drive from hospital to home he braces himself during turns and startles each time the car accelerates.

When she parks in her driveway she leaves the ignition on and gets out. Steve doesn’t slide behind the wheel to bring himself home. Instead he shuts the car off, climbs out, and leans on the hood, his other hand on the open passenger door.

Robin sighs. “What do you want, dingus, a goodnight kiss? You’re never getting one.”

“Dude, I know. Listen. Can I uh, maybe crash on your couch tonight?”

She cocks her head. “Why?”

“Just… because, okay?”

“Is going home seriously that bad?”

“No, no it’s fine, I’m just--” He shakes his head.

She thinks about his mother, who she met this morning, the beautiful doll who had no issue letting a stranger up to her son’s room. Robin had wondered if she even knew Steve was in the hospital. She did-- once Robin mentioned it the woman asked if he was alright in a vague way, like a pleasantry at a cocktail party; she asked the question and mentally checked out before the answer.

If Steve’s mother is shamefully out of touch, what’s his douchebag dad like? Robin wasn’t able to meet him. Actually, there were no signs of siblings, pets, or anything else that could make the house a true home, aside from impeccable summer catalogue decor.

“I’m afraid to drive in the dark,” Steve says.

“You’re afraid of the dark?”

“No, I’m afraid to _drive_ in the dark. It’s different.”

“How?”

He helplessly shrugs. “Robin, please?”

In the dying slate blue light she takes him in. His good eye is a puppy dog teardrop, the other is so mottled dark it mushes her heart. It wouldn’t matter if both eyes were healthy and his bottom lip wasn’t sewn together-- she’d take him inside regardless, because he doesn't deserve to be down in the dumps.

* * *

The foyer opens up into the living room, where her mother is reading a book. She looks up to see the stranger her daughter brought in and sets the book down. As she stands up she catches Robin’s eye and signs, “Who’s this?”

“Steve,” she fingers spells. Then she signs happily, “My friend.”

Her mother walks toward them. “Your friend from Scoops?”

“Yes. He helped get me out of Starcourt alive.”

“I see,” her mom signs interestedly. Then she turns to Steve. “My name is Ravena. Nice to meet you.”

“This is my mom Ravena,” Robin interprets out loud. “She says-- Steve? Are you okay?”

His jaw is hanging open. “Am I high again, or is your mom talking with her hands?”

“It’s sign language,” Robin laughs and relays Steve’s surprise to her mom, who proudly signs, “I’m Deaf.”

“ _What_?” he whispers.

“She’s Deaf, she can’t hear.”

“And you just, like, know sign language?”

“ASL, yeah.”

“You definitely didn’t mention this. You said your ears are--” he wags a finger. “I don’t remember but it was something about your ears.”

“Sign language has nothing to do with my ears, dingus. Now say hi to my mom before she thinks you’re rude.”

He smiles awkwardly and waves.

“Is he okay?” her mom signs.

“Nervous. He still doesn’t feel well. Can he stay over tonight?”

Like Robin did in the driveway, her mother takes in the full extent of him, from the greasy crest of his hair to his battered blue Adidas. She nods. “I’ll set him up in your brother’s old room and lend him a set of pyjamas.” Then she signs to Steve, “You need a shower.”

Once they’re cleaned up they hang out in pyjamas, playing Scrabble in the kitchen. At some point Robin’s dad comes home to join them. This is her mother’s favorite game. Her English is impeccable, something she’s not given enough credit for, considering the unique challenge of learning a written language when your native one is visual. She explains this to Steve as he munches on leftovers in between turns. The game goes slowly because Steve’s vocabulary is rather limited. Each time he is embarrassed her family provides encouragement. She and her father interpret, watching giddily as the language barrier dissipates. By bedtime Steve and Mom have established common ground.

* * *

Robin is the baby. Her brother, the second youngest, moved away to college in Wisconsin a couple years ago, so his bedroom is a bare bones guest room now. Her sisters— deaf and hard of hearing, respectively— moved to Chicago long enough ago that their shared bedroom is now a home office.

They sit on the guest bed talking until Robin’s genuinely tired and playfully tucks Steve in. “Do you need anything?”

“Yeah,” he says sheepishly, “leave the lights on, would you? But, uh, don’t tell anyone I said that, okay?”

She narrows her eyes. “Afraid people are going to judge you for wanting the lights on after what you’ve been through?”

“People can’t know what I’ve been through,” he mumbles seriously.

She decides not to dig. “Sweet dreams, Stevie.”

“Yeah, yeah, you, too.” He rolls over so he’s facing the door, like he needs to watch in case someone breaks in.

Since Steve so graciously pointed out how dark it is during sleep, Robin’s a little spooked tonight. She doesn’t own a nightlight, and going downstairs to get a flashlight seems too far. At the same time, leaving the lights on is too bright. After digging around in her closet she comes up with an old lava lamp, something she couldn’t quite decide if she wanted to put up the spring yard sale. She’s glad she kept it. It gives off a cool green color, with whispers of gold as orange globs float about the plasma. She watches it until she’s taken by a heavy, needed sleep, as if knowing Steve’s nearby and safe means something to her still-achy body. Never in a gazillion years could she have imagined feeling _good_ about Steve Harrington sleeping over.

Never did she imagine she would wake up on a Saturday morning to find him sleeping on her bedroom floor.

* * *

On Saturday, shortly after Steve takes the Byers home, a nurse comes in to clean El’s stump. As per Joyce’s urgent instructions, Robin stays in the room and holds her hand.

Naturally the human body wants to inspect its potential defects. Eyes are drawn to asymmetry as much as they are drawn to beauty. El is a beautiful, healthy preteen from the tip of her nose to her adorable toes -- her _five_ toes. Her left knee isn’t attached to a full shin, ankle, and foot like typical teens. It ends abruptly in an angry, swollen stump that punches the brain. Staples cross the folded skin like a nightmarish smile, the skin itself stained tye dye yellow, purple, and red. It reminds her of a paper mache monster on the set of a school play.

Matter of factly the nurse explains how she needs to clean, massage, and desensitize the stump before rebandaging it, which is what El will be learning to do in the coming weeks. Robin cringes at the word _desensitize_.

They desensitize the stump through massage, getting the tissue there used to pressure and encouraging circulation. It’ll help, but it will hurt like hell. Sure enough, when the nurse’s nimble fingers begin working gently around El’s stump, she yelps in pain. Her left leg jerks. She squeezes Robin’s hand so hard her knuckles grind. She scoots her chair a little closer to the bed and holds El’s hand in both of hers.

“It’ll be over soon, okay?”

“Okay,” El cries.

Once the nurse is finished rewrapping El’s stump, she gives her a dose of pain medication and watches her swallow it down with a small box of juice she carried in.

When she leaves, El slumps defeatedly against the pillows. “I’m ugly now. Bad.”

“Hey,” Robin says, “look at me.” El’s soulful brown eyes meet hers wearily, like she is ashamed to be seen. Robin smiles softly and speaks with bolstering confidence. “This is _your_ body. So what if it doesn’t look like everyone else’s? So what if right now it’s totally freaking out because it got hurt? Your body isn’t ugly, or bad. It just needs help. It’s healing. Tomorrow it’ll hurt less, and the next day, and the next, until a few weeks from now your stump is all one color, the staples are out, and you’re moving around again.”

“Robin,” El says flatly. “Legs don’t grow back.”

She laughs. “You’re right, but we’ve got tools. Crutches, wheelchairs, and even _fake_ legs for people like you. You’re going to keep moving.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do.” She elaborates. “Half my family is Deaf, and it hasn’t stopped any of them from living awesome lives! Disabilities aren’t really disabilities.”

“Disa-bill…?”

“A disability is something that makes you unable to do something you could do if your body was like everyone else’s.” Not the best way to put it, but she isn’t sure how else to frame it in a way El can understand.

“I’m disabled.”

Robin adds, “Only for right now.”

“What’s _deaf_?”

Woah! So much El doesn’t know. Before bed last night Steve caught her up on the rest of the story. All they know about El is she was born in a lab with powers, and the chief adopted her last fall. Robin marvels at her now, realizing El hasn’t simply been used for her powers, she’s been deliberately stunted. She hasn’t been educated, so how can she grow up?

“Deaf means you can’t hear. Since my mom and one of my sisters were never able to hear, they can’t speak either. But my family’s not only deaf, we’re _Deaf_. Capital d. We use America Sign Language, and my sisters are involved in the Deaf community up in Chicago. There’s a whole culture, like if you visit another country and see how people live life there.” She grins. “I’m sure you’re going to discover a whole world of other kids like you.”

As the words leave her mouth she thinks about how stupid it is to suggest that to El. What other telekinetic amputee preteens are there, and how would El find them?

Thankfully she doesn’t pick up on that silly implication. “If they can’t hear _or_ talk, how do they… talk?”

“American Sign Language. Different countries have their own languages. I know some Italian Sign Language from when we visit my mom’s family.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, right. Okay, watch this.” She signs, “My name is Robin,” fingerspelling her name with her right hand. “I’m at the hospital visiting my friend.” The literal sign order is _HOSPITAL ME GO WHY? FRIEND VISIT ME_.

El is awestruck. “No words, just hands?”

“Hands, face, mouth shape, body.”

“What did you sign?”

“I said, ‘I’m at the hospital visiting my friend’.”

El’s eyes sparkle, her steady drizzle of tears all dried up. “We’re _friends_?”

“Duh! Unless you don’t want to be, which is totally fine— I won’t force my friendship on anyone.”

“No, friends. I want friends.”

“Cool,” Robin smiles. “Me, too.”


	12. Steve

He’s not even halfway upstairs before good ol’ Dad calls him back down to the living room.

There was a time when it was easy to brush off Dad’s arrogance and excuse Mom’s distance, because they always gave him what he wanted. It wasn’t a concern to Steve that he hadn’t felt connected to his parents since third grade; he had a connection to his peers and spent his time worrying about them instead. Sports, popularity, partying, getting laid. Those were his priorities, and as long as he brought home average grades, his parents weren’t bothered either. They accepted long ago he would never be the son they originally had.

It was in November of junior year, when Steve bottomed out because of other worlds, that things changed. He couldn’t tell his parents why he was failing classes, so his father’s feigned strict approach turned to genuine callousness, and Steve’s already precarious self-esteem plummeted.

As Steve slinks into the living room, his father pats the couch cushion next to him. “You didn’t tell me you were staying another night at the hospital.”

Steve sits and wastes no time admitting, “I didn’t.”

“Correct. When I called asking for you last night they said you’d been released at noon. So where were you?”

Sounds of talking in the kitchen catch his attention, and the smell of food cooking. For an early Saturday afternoon the house is busy. What's going on?

“Where were you?” his father reiterates.

He shrugs. “I slept at a friend’s.”

Such a simple answer, yet so fake. What precludes it is way greater than  _ I slept at a friend’s.  _ Everything in his life has led him to Robin Buckley, a girl who makes him laugh. She is equal parts snark and kindness and he’s realizing quickly how overdue for a true friend he’s been, after two falls in a row beat his ego into smithereens and erased his popularity. Robin endearingly calls Steve dingus, but that doesn’t even  _ begin _ to paint the landscape of his stupidity. Years wasted building himself a fantasy world which reality has unkindly crushed the guts out of, like a child stomping on a bug.

“What friend? Tommy?”

“No,” he says edgily. “I told you we don’t talk anymore.”

“Watch your tone,” his father warns.

“I slept at Robin’s, okay? My friend from Scoops.”

“Ah. You two are going steady now? Good to see you’ve moved on. Last month you were still heartbroken over Nancy.”

“We’re not going steady. Like I said, we’re just friends.”

“Well, friends or not, you’re both out of a job now, which reminds me that Monday morning you need to hit the pavement. Lot of positions open with so many people gone, I’m sure businesses will be desperate enough to take you.”

Right, the death of townspeople means an open job market. Catastrophe is business as usual to Dad. And to think, Steve used to be this insensitive! The shit he put Jonathan through the week they thought Will was dead… He is shameful.

“Steven, you’re home!” his mother exclaims as she glides into the room wearing a floral apron and carrying an iced drink he suspects is spiked. Her hair and makeup are done perfectly, bright and big. “You can help us set up chairs and prep the grill,” she says. “But first we need to put some concealer on that  terrible bruise of yours.”

Go ahead, cover up the mess, pretend it’s not there and doesn’t affect you.

News: it affects you.

_ How are you feeling?  _ The first thing Joyce asked this morning when he and Robin arrived at the hospital. She’d spent the night half-asleep by El’s bed and still had it in her to graze his temple with the back of her hand, wincing on behalf of how much he hurts.

“Honey,” his mother says, “did you hear me? We need to get ready for the party.”

“Wait, we’re having a party?”

“Oh, did you forget? Our annual Independence Day celebration! Late this year, on account of the calendar. Aunt Marlene is already here cutting vegetables. The rest of the company is due in two hours! Your cousins from Illinois are bringing fireworks.”

If there’s anything the Harringtons’  _ are _ good at, it’s distracting themselves by showing off.

* * *

Late that afternoon Steve spots his mother across the patio. She keeps her glassy eyes on the brother in-law she’s catching up with, avoiding the sight of happy young swimmers in her pool. Steve watches them, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, entranced, vigilant in the presence of danger.

Pool. Water. Barb. Sundown. Drown.

Danger lives in everything.

Years ago there was a huge fight between his parents about whether or not to invest in the inground pool. His mother has hated bodies of water since Steve was in third grade, but his father was vehement on staying ahead of the neighbors, and insisted their son learn to swim. In high school, Steve would have joined the swim team if it weren’t for his mother’s upset. His father ripped him a new asshole for “giving up before starting”, and argued with his mother over her discouraging their son. To shut him up Steve proved his athleticism by playing basketball.

Over the splash of a butterball someone calls his name. Steve looks up to see Charlotte. They’re cousins, same age, but Charlotte’s in her second year at Indiana University and he just lost the only job he could get. He’s embarrassed to be in her presence because he isn’t who he used to be-- who she probably still thinks he is. He's nothing.

She sits on a folding chair and sips a beer. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain.”

“That’s not what your face says. You lose another fight or what?”

Hasn’t he answered this question enough tonight? Prying eyes and hugging relatives exhausted him before the sun even began to set.  _ Why’d you choose not to go to college _ ? His father coached him on how to lie so he wouldn’t have to explain why he doesn’t trust his only remaining child with his lucrative company. Each spoken lie fills Steve’s belly with the shame of having no future.

“What are you, deaf? Come on, tell me who whooped your ass this time.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” he says.

“Shit like what?”

He looks at her. “Throwing the word deaf around, like it’s an insult. There are actually Deaf people in Hawkins, Charlotte, and they’re awesome.”

“Jesus,” she marvels, “when did King Steve die, and who the hell is this new model?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been through some shit, okay?”

“And I’m just trying to learn what that shit is.”

“Yeah, doubt that.”

She sighs and stands up. “You graduated last month, right?”

“Why?”

She walks off.

“Why?” he calls out.

“I’m grabbing you a beer!”

"Shit," he mumbles to no one, “I don’t want to drink.”

* * *

Why did he let her influence him? He should have listened to himself.

Once upon a time the lightness of a buzz was welcome, but the fairy tale’s over. Tonight being tipsy recalls an oily Russian jamming a needle into his neck, deep in the dungeons below town. He absently rubs the bruise below his jaw, the one his mother forgot to cover up because his sloppy hair hid it.

Suddenly he's not buzzed, he's unwell. Nobody here can help him. It’s dark but they’re all smiling, because _they’re_ from out of town and haven’t lost anyone, and _they’re_ going to see fireworks soon. Normal, happy lives like livestock, being herded whichever way society wants to go. Meanwhile, Steve is living in fear and has never felt more separated from the people he’s supposed to be close to.

Does he even exist?

Charlotte takes a long pull from her beer, then spins around in her chair to study him. With the sun recently set, her silhouette is backed by the glow of the floodlights on the side of the house. She’s faceless, bearing in on him. “Let’s try this again, Steve. What’s got you down?”

Can she hear his heart beating? It’s loud, thumping fast in his ears. He glances at her, then away. “You, uh— you know the explosion that happened at Starcourt a few days ago? A bunch of people died?”

“Duh, it was all over the news.” She perks up. “Wait, did you know anyone who died?”

Blood rushes to his face. “Yeah, actually. I was there. I knew at least three people who died. One was my ex-girlfriend.”

“No way! Miss Priss who was at this exact party last summer?”

Sweat clams up his palms and forehead. He is sick of people describing--  _ remembering  _ \-- Nancy that way, but he’s too unstable to defend her. “Yep,” he agrees, “that’s the one.”

Charlotte shakes her head. “Wow, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“But… Did you, like, get to see it?”

“See what?”

“You said you were there, did  _ see _ the explosion?”

“Why— Charlotte, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Don’t be mad! It’s morbid curiosity, totally normal. Everyone wants to know what a dead body loo-”

_ Clink! _

The noise ejects him from his chair. He finds his feet and swings his head around. “What was that?”

“You dropped your beer, idiot.”

Sure enough, the bottle he was drinking from is rolling casually across the concrete. It drops over the edge and vanishes into the pool just like Barb did. There are two kids still swimming, stubbornly pruned and cold. The pool glows neon blue around them. He tries to shout  _ GET OUT _ , but can’t take in enough air to fuel his voice. Why is he yelling at them? It’s summer, the pool is fine for kids.

Oh. It reminds him of the night Barb died, which freaks him out. Logically knowing that he's freaking out over something that's over and done freaks him out more.

One swimmer defiantly splashes him at the same time Charlotte touches his shoulder. “Steve,  _ chill out _ .”

He didn’t see her come up beside him. With no wall to support him he stumbles backward over the chair he sat in moments ago and lands on his ass. All heads, both illuminated and shadowed, are fixed on him. “It’s-- it’s happen--” he exhales. “Shit, shit,  shit !”

“Steve?” Charlotte stands over him with her beer in hand.

He fears she will attack him, so he pushes himself up, oddly winded, arms weak and legs heavy like running in a dream. “I need-- I have to go."  He slips through the sliding patio door and finds the bright, empty kitchen. He braces himself against the kitchen counter, willing his body to stand up in spite of it wanting to collapse. His chest hurts, tight like the worst moments of terror yet depressed like being pinned in a wrestling match. Why’s this happening again, what’s  _ wrong _ with him?

The patio door slides open again and Steve gulps down air as a tremor dances up his spine. It must be his father, here to capture him and beat him into submission. His father’s never hit him before, but so many people have that it seems a reasonable treatment for running his stupid mouth.

To escape, he bolts upstairs and into his bedroom, grabs the radio Dustin gave him before leaving for camp, then sprints down the hall to the bathroom where he slams and locks the door. He drops to the floor and kneels in front of the toilet. His legs are tingling. His armpits are swampy. Nothing comes up.

A knock on the door, he feels it in his gut. It’s his mother. “Steven, what on earth is going on?” 

He swallows a few times. Forming words is difficult because his face is numb. “I don’t feel well.”

_ I’m dying _ .

She’s silent for a minute. He yearns for her to hold him like she used to. But she says, “Alright. Come back to the party when you’re feeling better. The fireworks are about to start!” Her footsteps fade out, and although she just warned him the fireworks were going to sound off, the first explosion reverberates through his chest and gravity pulls him to a splayed position on the cool floor.

Thinking the radio is a phone, he reaches for it and tries to dial Robin, only to choke on absolute shock at the lack of numbers on the face of the device. His mouth forms an O as he works to catch his breath, in through the nostrils, out through the mouth like after sprinting the 400 meter dash. This  quickly devolves into humiliating tears. He clenches his fists.  “Stop it. Stop it, you’re fine. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine.”

_ Boom! _

He is not fine.

He is dying of a heart attack, and consanguinity can go fuck itself. The people Steve has saved the world with are more like family than his own blood. Where are they now? What’s Robin’s number? Why did he ever come home? There’s a taste like blood in the back of his mouth.

Frantically he presses buttons, willing himself to remember how the damn thing works. He calls out for anyone,  _ anyone,  _ to save him before his heart stops.


	13. Max

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “Can’t Take My Eyes off You”, Frankie Valli, 1967  
> [Spotify link in work summary]

In the dream she’s leaning against the doorframe watching Billy primp his hair in the bedroom mirror. A cigarette dangles between his shiny teeth. He meets her eyes in the glass. Sunlight from his window washes them out so they’re opaque.

“You’re a user Max.” Slowly he pinches the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. The air is clean but she feels the smoke in her throat. He points it at her. “You’re a loser, just like them.”

Over his head is a large poster bearing a pornographic image. At once it disgusts and fascinates her. Thick body hair in a place she has only some, the folds of female genitals carved open like a wound on a fleshy animal. An elephant, a monkey, an asshole.

She shifts her weight from foot to foot and then it’s her in front of the mirror, with Billy behind her, playing with her hair. He hands her the cigarette and she inhales, knowing she’s never smoked. It’s like breathing and has no taste. Her throat feels fine; maybe the adults are wrong.

He lets her hair down and shakes it around her shoulders. “Are you going to tell them?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I have to.”

“Good.”

They leave the room together and are in his car and he’s driving too fast. It’s dark, the windshield is cracked and thick smoke’s coming out from under the crinkled hood.

“Billy, pull over. Something’s wrong with the car.”

“Don’t worry.”

Somewhere in her gut she knows this is the last conversation she’ll ever have with him, and she urges herself to make it special. _You’re going to die, Billy, slow down_. Stay home, forget your car keys, call out of work, go--

“Billy, seriously, slow down!”

He turns and shouts at her.

Just then, a girl jumps into the road. Headlights wash her out and Billy swerves but they run her over. The car bounces like an airplane in turbulence and Max feels a cavity open up inside, a scream that can’t come out. Billy overcorrects the turn and they careen into the woods, Max’s last seconds alive spent shaking at the thought of blood and bone between the tire treads, as one might worry about the remains of a bug they’d smashed with their favorite shoe. 

* * *

“Maxine, honey?” her mother says, rapping lightly on the door. “Are you up? I made breakfast.”

Yeah, she’s up. After that dream she couldn’t fall back to sleep. She kept running over lines in her head, rehearsing a play that’s already gone out of theatres. Scandalous performances and mixed reviews.

Billy’s last line, that’s what she can’t remember.

The insect is hollowed out.

The girl in the dream was El.

* * *

Mom is happy to drop Max off at the hospital early Saturday afternoon. Since Friday morning Neil has been blasted, alternately drinking at bars, barreling into the police station, and destroying the house. Thankfully he hasn’t hit Max since Thursday night, but she knows by now the Hargrove men are unpredictable.

For this reason, Max worries about her mother and wishes she’d stay at the hospital instead of going home. She insists she has to clean up and tend to _family matters_. What control does she have over any of this, and why did she choose another man like her father, who had served in Vietnam a few years before she was born? She remembers her mother saying he was dishonorably discharged for desertion, and returned fueled by self-loathing and alcohol. From what she understands he used drugs, too, but no adult would tell her what kind. Max felt bad for him. He’d escaped a death 58,000 other Americans didn’t. That could put you out of touch with reality.

Prior to moving here, one of her aunts on the Mayfield side said her father had tried Alcoholics Anonymous. Tried it? What did that mean? Either you get sober or you don’t. Whatever, it was way too late. Men’s biggest mistake is assuming they can do everything on their own, and when they realize they can’t, getting mad at everyone else instead of themselves.

Max hasn’t spoken to her dad since last Christmas on the phone. It was strange. Was he drunk? Sober? Would she ever know? Honestly, she really wanted to know what he was like pre-war. Her mother kept a few pictures of them hidden in a small box of keepsakes. He looked happy, nothing like the degenerate he became. It’s scary to think his is the blood she has in her-- alcoholic blood. Sick blood.

It’s the blood Neil has in him, too. Her mother is a trained hound, skilled at hunting down broken men who take out their unprocessed anguish on she and her daughter. It’s horrible Billy died, but couldn’t Neil have died, too?

Inside the hospital room is a peculiar picture: Robin sitting in a chair beside El’s bed, the two of them making shapes with their fingers and shouting words excitedly. When El spies Max at the door she moves her fingers for Robin, who says, “Max!”

“Yep, that’s me.”

Robin turns around. “Oh, _Max_! El said you might come.”

Max walks to the other side of El’s bed. They clasp hands. _I killed you in my dream_ , she thinks, starting to cry. She leans over and hugs El long and tight. Finally they let go. Max is relieved to see a blanket covering El’s lap. She isn’t ready to see the proof of damage, to be reminded. Still, she asks, “How’s your leg?”

“It doesn’t hurt too bad.”

“Yeah? How many painkillers are you on?”

El looks sad and shrugs.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” she frowns, “I didn’t mean anything by it. Look, I brought you some comics so you won’t die of boredom in here.” Max hands her a slight stack, including El’s favorite from their sleepover last week.

El receives them wide eyed. “Thank you.”

“Please, it’s the least I can do.” Max looks between she and Robin. “What are you guys up to, anyway?”

“We’re learning the alphabet,” El says.

“You already know the alphabet, I thought?”

“The manual alphabet,” Robin explains. “American Sign Language.”

Max scrunches her face. “I’m totally lost.”

“Robin’s mom is deaf. Capital D. She’s teaching me signs.”

Nodding, Max says, “Cool.”

“Wanna play? We’re spelling three letter words.”

It’s not how she expected to spend her day, but what _did_ she expect to do in a hospital that’s still under military guard? This is her best option. She’s happy to see a friend.

However, around the twenty minute mark a strange ill-ease rolls over her. She can’t look at El without seeing Billy hanging over her, pierced like a piece of sushi with chopsticks, bleeding black oil as if he were never human at all. Max sees El and thinks of Billy apologizing— those were his last words. What was he sorry for? Putting her through bullshit? Getting himself involved with a monster? Or dying, knowing Neil would then become a monster?

“You okay, little one?” Robin says.

Max looks up and both girls are watching her gaze blankly from the chair. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m just sad.”

“Want to talk?” El asks.

“No, I think it’s better if we keep ourselves distracted.” That’s what helped most when her father left, and again during the transition of moving.

“I’ve got an idea,” Robin smiles. “Why don’t we each share our happiest moments.”

“Yes!” El grins responsively. “You go first.”

Robin shares about her first band performance.

Max shares about the time she landed her first street plant, a trick she hasn’t done since skating in California.

El, surprisingly, doesn’t share about Mike. She starts a story about going to Chicago alone last November and meeting her sister, Kali. Number eight.

“Wait, you have a _sister_?”

“What’s the number eight?” Robin asks, brow furrowed. “I mean, not to be totally nosy or anything, but I really don’t know much about you,” she tells El. Then to Max, “You, either.”

Max agrees. “Will you tell us your story, El? As much as you want, no pressure.”

“Okay,” she says, then suddenly screams, making both of them jump. “My leg! Get off, get off! Stop!” She leans forward, face red and strained.

“El, there’s nothing on your leg!”

“It’s another phantom pain,” Robin assures her. “Look.” She gets up, takes El’s blanket and pulls it all the way to the foot of the bed. Now Max is faced with the visual evidence. A missing chunk of bone and meat. El’s leg ends in a bandaged curve, like her shin is now a fingertip, her knee the knuckle to crack when you’re bored in class. Her eyes widen. So much for the meds. 

“There’s nothing touching you,” Robin says. “It’s just your body reminding you it’s hurt.”

“Stop,” El complains as she catches her breath. She points indignantly at her stump. “Stop it. I _know_.”

It takes a few minutes for the pain to pass, but when it does El is too exhausted to tell her story. She asks Robin to sing her favorite song from yesterday. To Max’s chagrin she learns that Steve can sing, and the two teens put on quite a show for El to distract her post-amputation.

“If I remember correctly, your favorite is called…” She makes signs with her hands.

“What?” El giggles.

“Steve’s not here to do the horns, though!”

“Horns?” Max cocks her head. “What song is this?”

Robin snaps her fingers rhythmically. “ _You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you…”_

“Oh, my God, I know this one!” Max laughs. She joins in, silly and uninhibited, trumpeting the horns in Steve’s place. This is a million times better than any hangout with their dumb boy counterparts. She’s grateful for this one good day.

* * *

That night Max is on the couch watching TV with Mom. Neil’s been gone for hours, and in spite of the pit in her stomach saying danger’s on its way— partially due to the fireworks some idiot is lighting off after Independence Day— she relaxes enough to forget. Her mother cuddles her for the first time in a while.

Out of nowhere she says, “Maxine, do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” A rush straightens her up. “The fireworks?”

“No. Sounds like a radio.” Her mother lowers the TV and Max hears it. The buzz of her walkie talkie. She’d left it on the kitchen table when they’d cleaned up dinner. She jumps up and runs for it. How long has it been going off?

”Hello?” she buzzes in. “Lucas? Dustin? This is your Zoomer, over!”

Nothing happens. Is the too late? 

“Was it one of your friends?” her mother asks from the living room.

“I think so. I’m gonna go in my room and try to reach them.”

On the way back to her room she passes Billy’s closed door. It’s tempting to use it as a secret spot, but she won’t risk getting caught by a drunken, grieving step-father. Knowing her luck he’ll come home the minute she shuts herself inside.

“If anyone can hear me,” the voice comes through, “I need help.”

_Steve?_

“I’m dying.”  



	14. Mike

Unconsciously he leaned toward the middle of the backseat, hand inching closer to Will’s with each shift and bump. Sleep deprivation had him high enough to believe he could obey the urge to touch his best friend without getting caught.

Until Will turned to him. _You okay?_

 _Yeah,_ he lied. _Just tired._

_So lay down._

Permission granted. Mike eased himself into a fetal curl across the seat. Will’s hand found his shoulder and guided Mike’s head onto his lap, mindful of the cut on his face. Next thing he remembered was waking up to Mrs. Henderson’s gentle voice. _You’re home!_ He sat up and swallowed hard. Dustin turned around in his seat. Both he and Will stared at Mike expectantly.

Will walked him to the door, saw him hesitate. _Do you want me to walk you inside?_

 _No,_ he’d lied, embarrassed to act like a baby, however badly he yearned for Will's comfort to steel him through another night. Mike couldn’t move. His hand rested on the doorknob, like maybe the moment could go on forever. Him, outside, close enough to hear Will breathing, while his family stayed trapped inside their dollhouse.

 _Hey,_ _what I wanted to say earlier, it..._ Will huffed, doubted himself. Then he met Mike’s eyes. _I need you to know that I love you._

Those words dizzied him. Until that point those words were reserved for family, which isn’t half as important as Will, who Mike could have lost a thousand times over but by some miracle was standing in front of him. He grabbed Will’s shoulder to steady himself, jaw slack and mouth open. Any of them could have been Flayed this past week. Any of them. If Will had died Mike would be completely alone. Nancy would be comforting Jonathan, and El wouldn’t understand.

The idea of losing El is bad. The idea of losing Will is worse.

Mike closed the gap between them, toe to toe and torsos pressed together. The best thing he ever did was ask Will to be his friend.

_I love you, too._

* * *

Saturday morning this is all he can think about. Mike’s ribcage is the quiver, the moment an arrow held securely-- waiting to strike. To simultaneously protect and cause harm. Will loves him. Replaying that moment cast a spell that put Mike to sleep last night, but he’s smarter than to think guys can just say those words to their friends, even if they recently stared down death and won.

At breakfast his mother avoids his eye. Is she waiting for another apology because he went out last night? Forget that Dad was the one who encouraged him to leave, he owes Mom a thousand apologies for scaring her, and for every secret he kept over the past two years. If he speaks, will she get mad again? Her puffy face suggests she’s cried herself into temporary resignation. It frightens him.

“Michael,” his father says through a mouth full of eggs, “you’re bleeding.”

His mother’s head lifts as Mike taps his chin with shaky fingertips. Unaware, he reopened the cut with his teeth. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, smearing blood to compliment the scab on his cheek.

“That’s disgusting,” his mother says. “Use a napkin.”

An untouched napkin sits beside his untouched meal. Moist scrambled eggs, buttery pancakes, and crisp sausage all perfectly arranged. His mother managed to cook breakfast the morning after learning her daughter is dead. The plate is artwork, a product of labour. A sculpture he cannot touch.

A drop of blood grows pregnant on the base of his chin and drops onto the plate. Bile rises up his throat and into his mouth, where he tastes it. Swallows it.

His throat burns as he asks to be excused.

* * *

Saturday night his mother plans a funeral in her head, staring into a glass of wine. Holly stares at the television set. Her new babysitter. Pretty cost-effective.

Holly is another unknown sister. Nancy was a mystery, mostly. Two years ago she and Mike agreed not to lie to each other and immediately proceeded to lie. Nancy and Jonathan were some sort of secret until they weren’t. Nancy never brought Mike into her discoveries and plans until it was too late, despite their shared investment in closing the gate and protecting the people they love.

With Nancy dead and Holly practically a decade younger than him, he’s sure to live the remainder of his life independently. And he’s hoping the remainder of his life isn’t long. High school starts in September. Imagine stepping foot inside that building, let alone surviving the inevitable magnitude of change? Inconceivable. The party could be disbanded by schedules alone, and suddenly everyone’s stranger despite being bonded by the summer’s events.

Spending time with Dustin and Max yesterday was sour. Of course, Will is an exception, like El. Time with them is always sweet. However, nearness to Will buoys Mike in ways nearness to El hasn’t. It was Mike’s self-appointed duty to protect her, to keep her safe. In part so he doesn’t lose her, and in part so when it’s absolutely necessary, they can use her powers.

Max was right. His mom, too. For years Mike has played the leader. As a middle child with a perfect older sister, it felt nice to lead and protect others. He’d always helped Will, and when Will vanished and El appeared in his place it was _she_ who needed him most. He clung to the high of saving her when he couldn’t save Will, and her featurelessness made it easy. She was a blank slate to write a story onto. A love story beginning with atrocities barring him from moving on unless he moved in step with her.

Lying and omitting didn’t protect his mother, it made her unable to help. Spending all his time with El and speaking for her didn’t protect her, it made her dependent on him for friendship and entertainment.

Presently Mike hides in the basement, listening to the laundry machines run. After breakfast he asked his mother how to do laundry. Offering to do chores was an olive branch. Now the rumbling machines soothe him, and disguise the grumbling of his stomach. He knows his body is hungry but can’t feel the pain. Emotions transcend it. Bad emotions he can’t name.

Not long ago, Mike was asked set the table for dinner. He set the table as he would any other night. Five place settings. This confused he _and_ his mother, who screamed at him, convinced he’d done it to hurt her. Dad edged in and ordered Mike to apologize and remove the extra place setting. _Had_ he done it intentionally? He was ashamed and begged forgiveness for sabotaging his own redemption. Staring at his plate it had occurred to him: Steve should have left him in the tunnels to burn alive. He would have died knowing how Will felt. Restitution. Prevention, actually, of all the harms done.

Maybe it’s time to distract himself. He stands up from the couch and loses his balance, knocks his shins into the coffee table. Once he’s steady, he goes to the shelves and grabs a book. Ten minutes later he’s still on the first page, and gives up to find his campaign binder, thinking he’ll sprout ideas. It quickly occurs to him the party may never play again. They are utterly decimated now, hardly a dent into summer.

What, did he think after a third time battling monsters they wouldn’t be affected?

Yeah, he did. He really did.

Mike finds markers and paper, sits at the card table and tries to draw a wordless apology. Is this for El, or Will? Who cares? What forms is an ugly monster, course and crying blue black ink: memories etched into his brain. Are his friends as easily distracted as he is now? Are they also lying awake at night reliving everything? Are they thinking of him, too?

He’s considered calling El a thousand times in the past two days. What would he say? _Sorry about your leg_ . No, maybe _sorry about your dad._ Better yet, _I forgive you_. For what? And who is he to think she even wants to hear those things?

Yesterday he longed to be with her, but Will’s right: she’s being cared for. She doesn’t need him anymore. Is that true? He broke her trust by lying, yeah, and she dumped him, okay. She still called for him and needed him post-sauna test, later in the cabin, and again at the mall.

Mike wants to call Will to talk about the confusion, or anything at all. Stopping him are the last words they exchanged. _I love you_. What comes next?

The radio buzzes. It’s static at first, then a garbled voice.

Flash back to Dustin trying to reach them at the mall. The Flayer roaring and throwing the radio. It splintered into plastic bone and gut. Watch something safe become dangerous, remove the option to call for help.

His heart thrums anxiously. Why them? Why Hawkins? Why their chief of police? Although Mike feared and resented the chief, he’s sorry he died. Mrs. Byers lost a friend, and El-- what does this mean for her? His mother would never let El stay here since she found out the truth.

The radio buzzes again on the couch. Something about a zoomer? Mike stares at it from his spot at the card table.

“If anyone can hear me, I need help…”

He recognizes the voice. He’s been _yelled_ at by it before. Douchebag Steve Harrington, supposedly not such a douchebag anymore. Tonight his speech is slurred, though. He’s probably at a party and just wants to cry about losing Nancy. There isn’t an ounce of energy inside Mike for a conversation with him.

Another buzz. “I’m dying.”

Someone finally answers. The last person he expects. “Steve, this is Max. What’s going on? Over!”

“Max?” Static. “Can’t breathe. Something’s… happening.”

A moment of silence before Max forcefully says, “When you’re done talking, say ‘over’ so I know, otherwise I can’t help you. Now tell me where you are and what’s going on. Over!”

“Bathroom floor.” A loud boom in the background. “Fireworks and, uh, heart attack. Over.”

“A heart attack? Are you joking? Over.”

“No, I’m serious, I’m so serious.” Silence. “Over.”

A guy his age isn’t having a heart attack. What feels like a heart attack but isn’t? Mike knows this. Panic attack. Will’s mother used to have them. On several occasions in elementary school Mike was over at their house when Mrs. Byers came under one. Once, when Jonathan wasn’t there to walk her through it, Will had to. It was scary. Adults aren’t supposed to buckle at the knees, break out in a sweat and lose their words. They aren’t supposed to let on to rapid heartbeats and debilitating anxiety.

Like his own mother, yesterday. He shifts on the couch, nauseated.

“Steve, you’re not having a heart attack,” Max explains. “You’re having a _panic attack_ , probably because of the idiots lighting off fireworks. It’ll go away in a few minutes, just follow my directions. Do you copy?”

How does she know this? It dawns on Mike, he has no idea who Max really is. Same as El. He didn’t know Nancy, either. Maybe he doesn’t know anyone, including himself.

“Steve, do you copy?”

“Yeah, yeah, I copy.”

“You’re on the floor, right? Roll onto your back and inhale through your nose until your lungs are totally full. Hold it, then exhale until your lungs are totally empty. Try it. Over.”

“I’m gonna throw up my heart,” he replies.

“Steve? Steve, do it. I’ll do it, too. Copy?”

“Copy.”

Mike eavesdrops as Max valiantly leads a crippled Steve back to health, similar to how he used to coach Will during flashbacks of the Upside Down. Max warns Steve there are plenty more attacks where that one came from, that he must remember what to do to help himself.

“I tried to call Robin, you know? But I uh, I couldn’t remember the number and also, this thing isn’t a phone.” He chuckles. “Over.”

“Well, you can’t expect her to save you. You have to be able to save yourself. I’m glad you feel better, though. Over and out.”

Are Steve and Robin dating now? Friends? Regardless, Max has a point. You have to be able to help yourself. Mike can’t help himself or anyone else; he can’t even pick up the phone. If he’s too weak to be the refuge he promised El, he does not deserve the haven that is Will Byers.


	15. Joyce

Sleep disorients. It does not heal.

A cavity opens in her chest Tuesday morning. She wakes calling out for the security of a parent. Her mother, who passed years ago. Stretching stirs up the aches. Why did she call for Ma? She hasn’t thought of her recently.

Her head pulses when she rises and remembers. This time it’s different. This time, she lost someone.

* * *

“Mom? Mom, did you hear me?”

She glances up. Will sits on the other side of the kitchen table, fork halfway to his lips, studying her anxiously. “Do you want company today?”

 _Company for what?_ Her mouth won’t form the words. She hears the clock ticking. After three days out of work, she’d returned yesterday. Today? Out again. Soon she meets Doctor Sam Owens. Is she supposed to bring Will? Although she hates seeing him hooked up to those machines, she’ll do whatever’s necessary to heal him.

A weight lays over her shoulders. Will is no longer across the table. He is wrapping a blanket around her. “You’re shaking.”

Her lips forget how to smile. “Thanks, Jonathan.”

“For what?” Jonathan enters from the hall and studies her through dark, swollen eyes. Her boys look more alike these days. Will grew, his shoulders broadened a bit. He’ll lean out by spring, like Jonathan. Like their father.

What would Lonnie say now? To save their lives, she took the life of someone else.

Joyce tries her smile again and says robotically, “You two are looking so alike these days.”

Will resumes his seat. “You shouldn’t drive. One of us should go with you.”

“No, no,” she dismisses, standing up. I’ll be fine after a little coffee.”

“Where are you going?”

“Coffee.” She hugs the throw blanket around her chest.

“Mom,” Jonathan points, “there’s a cup right in front of you.”

A steaming mug stands beside her untouched meal. She looks at her sons. They are mirrors. Will reflects the stress she once wore as a teen, while Jonathan reflects the bitterness of a disillusioned adult. In motherhood she swore to preserve their happiness and innocence, avoid a replay of her own childhood. History hasn’t exactly repeated itself. In many ways it’s worse.

She sits and pokes one arm through the cape. The porcelain in her trembling hand is hot. A tiny comfort. It warms her up with gratitude, because her family is still alive.

Will sets a plate of breakfast in front of Jonathan. They eat, stealing glances as she slowly tackles her meal. One bite of buttered toast at a time, one forkful of scrambled eggs.

“You’re meeting Dr. Owens today, right?” Jonathan asks.

“At the station,” she nods. “Legal stuff. Sam was named executor of Hop’s will. I need to go alone.” Another sip of coffee, she sits straighter. “Why don’t you guys see some friends? A little distraction, huh?”

Jonathan’s face says _distraction doesn’t exist_.

“We need food.” Will eyes Jonathan, who offers no help, then her. “I’ll attach my old wagon to the bike. Later I can ride out and visit El.”

“Why bother?” Jonathan says. “ _Steve’s_ there today.”

Joyce ignores his attitude. “I’m not sure I want you riding your bike that far. Jonathan, can you drive into town? Will can run in and do the shopping for us.”

“I’m tired,” he shrugs. Irritation tempts her, but he was just fired, injured, and dumped by way of death. How will he endure the grieving? Although they’ll suffer tremendously without the help of his paycheck, Joyce won’t push him to find work so soon.

Jonathan takes a bite of toast and crunches mechanically. Then he drops it and stands up. “Sorry.”

“Really,” Will says, “it’s okay.”

“No, I mean sorry I can’t eat this.” He knows better than to waste food, so he leaves the plate on the table for she and Will to pick at and fixes himself a bowl of cereal instead. At least he has an appetite.

Joyce peers through the haze. A television program on a tiny screen. Her chest tightens. That’s when she knows: incoming panic attack. She’ll be struck down any moment. Her boys have taken care of her a hundred times before; she doesn’t want to put any of this hurt on them, so she trades the meal for the privacy of her bedroom, where she quietly loses control.

* * *

“Joyce? Joyce, are you with me?”

Sam’s voice surfaces. He’s rolling a blue ball in smooth circles across Jim’s desk. They’re at the station, the most convenient meeting place according to Sam, who met with a lawyer yesterday and discussed the document resting on the desk between them.

Jim’s last will and testament.

Why would he name Sam the executor of the will? Why not her? She isn’t even the main beneficiary. His adopted child is.

Hardly a minute passes where Joyce isn’t thinking of El. How she feels, what she’s doing, who’s keeping her company. A child raised in a lab shouldn’t be subjected to an antiseptic hospital stay alone, not after guns were pointed at her, monsters bit her, and man-made circumstances forced her to kill. Fourteen in June, and a veteran of three wars. How many people has she killed in self defense? To protect her friends?

“These arrangements can drag out,” Owens explains. “Thankfully, Jim was smart. He prepared. As the executor I’ll use my position to expidite the distribution of his estate, pardon any accumulated debts, and rush the transference of guardianship.”

“Guardianship?”

He taps the ball twice. “His will clearly stipulates El should be cared for by you. Only you.”

Life rises above her head. Sam’s words are the vice grip of cement around her ankles. Why them? Why was El burdened with a life of constant tragedy? Jim gave her a home yet kept her stowed away in the name of safety long after she should have been brought into the light. Adopting El made the pressure real for him, and the stress of parenting along with the public fallout of Hawkins Energy lent him to agitation. His already short fuze shrunk, he started drinking again. Joyce could understand that, but keeping El apart and allowing visits only from Mike was inexcusable-- it didn’t even guarantee her safety!

And now El is coming to her. Loose tears trickle down Joyce’s cheeks. She’d already considered taking El home, but it’s no longer a choice and she’s scared. Is she fit to parent a daughter?

 _You’re a natural,_ Jim says. She peers over her shoulder. Where is he? Everything of his is here. Ashtray, trash bin, half shut file drawers. Jim is not.

“Pardon my presumptuousness, but from what I understand you’re not financially stable.” She refocuses and shakes her head. “As law would have it, in the event a legal guardian cannot adequately provide, the child must be turned over to the state.”

Her eyes snap open. Another threat to El’s safety. “No! No way is that little girl going to the state. I’d rather work myself to the bone than see her in the hands of other people! She could be abused-- _molested,_ for God’s sake, Sam, people are sick!”

“Joyce,” he interjects gravely. “Cruel as it is, considering where she was raised I’d bet my salary on the fact that she already has been.” She makes a wounded noise. He says, “This is where services come in.”

“Please, Sam, I can’t plan a funeral right now.”

“Funeral services? No, those are being covered by the town in what I believe is a public Mass to honor all whose lives were taken. I’m referring to everything else.”

She squints. “What?”

“You, Jim, your son, and most of all your soon-to-be daughter have all suffered because the government has dropped the ball. We’ve failed. I’d like to, as a member of the abominable establishment, offer you reparations. El needs a prosthetic leg. She’ll need several as she grows. You need money for school supplies, food, clothes.”

“Jonathan was working,” she points out weakly. “Now that Nancy’s gone… How could I ask him to job hunt?”

“I expect he’ll need to, eventually. Could be a good distraction. In the meantime, I’m here. Today I’ll cut you a check so you know I’m serious. Enough to cover immediate accommodations, as well as initial hospital bills. We’ll meet soon to discuss doctors and school.”

School. El’s never had public schooling. Hop taught her a little reading, writing, and basic math, but could she swim among freshman in a cesspool of damaged teens? This town isn’t a good place for children anymore.

She blinks, lashes sticky with tears. “I can’t ask this of you.”

“You’re not asking, and the alternative isn’t bright.” He taps the blue ball on the desk once. “Think it over, if you need. Just understand I’ve made mistakes in my life so egregious that all my resources pooled together can’t fix. Your family saved my life. Your children, Bob, Jim, Will’s friend--”

“Mike.”

“Mike,” he echoes. “Having played a part in this, I would never offer aid I wasn’t positive I could deliver.”

Should she trust him? This man was the head of a team that almost gave up on Will. Conversely, he was the only one who changed heart, and he showed up on July 4th. He’s the reason Jim became El’s legal guardian, and subsequently her. Rather than let El fall into dirty hands, he’s offering support. What choice does Joyce have other than acceptance?

“Okay.” She wipes her eyes on the ratty long sleeve shirt she pulled off the floor this morning. “I appreciate whatever help you can give.”

“Thank you. You’ll be wonderful, I’m sure, doing what Terry Ives couldn’t.”

El’s mother. She and Jim met her once. Harrowing. “I wish I could tell her I’m sorry.”

“Living amends. Take care of El, and talk to someone about this.”

She sniffles. “With all due respect, Sam, I just lost the only person I could talk to about this.”

“I understand.” He nods solemnly. “However, it would behoove your family to receive professional help. Counselors are coming in from Indianapolis. Bereavement groups for adults, teens, spouses, siblings will be available at no cost.”

“Professionals won’t understand what we’ve been through.”

Sam exhales heavily. “Perhaps not. You’re all welcome to meet me for conversations about the Upside Down, but I can’t stress professional counseling enough.”

She isn’t sure how to respond. Therapy has left a bad taste in her mouth.

His light eyes twinkle. “Your children are miracles, Joyce. They’re important. All deserving of a happy life. You owe it to them to try.”

That much is true.

* * *

They assemble around the kitchen table for the second time that day. She wears a clean shirt and holds a freshly lit cigarette between her trembling fingers. Has she stopped shaking at all?

“How’d it go?” Will asks tentatively.

One arm folds across her chest, the other props the cigarette up. She inhales deeply. “You know how El was Hop’s adopted daughter?” They nod. “Everything goes to her.”

Will’s eyes dart between she and Jonathan, waiting. Joyce loses direction, so Will prompts, “That’s good, right?”

“No,” Jonathan says. “She’s an orphan now. Doesn’t matter what he left her. She has nowhere to go.”

“Yes, she does. Jim listed me in his will, too.” Joyce exhales. “I’m El’s legal guardian now. She’s coming home to live with us.”

Will’s eyes widen. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“I know,” she disclaims, “that this puts more stress on us, but El needs a family, especially now.”

Jonathan shakes his head. “Our family is barely surviving as it is. We can’t handle more stress.”

“What do you expect me to do? Give her to the system?”

“Yes! I know Chief Hopper was your friend, Mom, but Eleven’s the one who opened the gate. She’s the reason the Flayer was here in Hawkins. It’s dangerous to have her in our house, not to mention we can’t pay our bills as it is!”

“She’s a _kid,_ Jonathan. She saved our lives. Will’s life, twice.” She ashes the cigarette harshly. “I get it, this isn’t ideal, but I promise you it won’t be as hard as you think. Sam offered to help.”

“Help how?”

“Reparation money, he’s covering all her medical bills, including a fake leg.”

“Please, tell me you don’t believe him.”

“I’m taking a leap of faith,” she reasons.

He barks, “You’re blind!”

Across the table Will scoots away slightly, distancing himself from their conversation. He’s a subject, not a part of. Like he was often the subject when she and Lonnie would fight. She’d scream, _Don’t call him queer!_ He’d fire back, _Oh, so I should lie to his face about what he is?_

She sets the cigarette in the ashtray. “Hop named Sam executor for a reason.”

“Right, well even if he does pay the medical bills, there’s gas,” Jonathan counts on his fingers, “electricity, phone, school supplies, clothes, and food.”

“The house is still up for sale. Soon enough we’ll resettle somewhere else an--”

“The house isn’t going to sell because everybody knows it’s where Zombie Boy and his freak brother live!”

“Hey, don’t call him that!”

“Jesus, that’s what he calls himself!” He looks at Will, who leans forward and holds his head. “You know, Mom, maybe you should give El to the Wheelers. I’m sure Mike would be thrilled, and we could get on with our lives.”

Will mumbles.

The forgotten cigarette fogs the air. “What, honey?”

“They broke up,” he says louder.

She’s surprised. Jonathan isn’t. “They’ll make up soon, believe me.” Will groans, and Jonathan gestures to him. “See! If El lives here, Will’s going to feel invisible.”

“Why would he feel invisible?”

“Because of how much attention Mike gives El!”

Suddenly Will stands up and snaps, “Stop acting like you care! You’re no better, spending every day with Nancy for the last nine months!”

“Leave her out of this,” he snarls.

“Then leave Mike out of it. This isn’t about me, or him, and it’s not about you. It’s about El. She has _no one._ ”

He stands stiffly to mirror Will. “She’s going to be a constant reminder.”

“Living in this house is a constant reminder!” Anger brings tears to his eyes. “ _I’m_ a constant reminder.”

“No, you’re not,” Joyce interjects fiercely.

Will grits his teeth against whatever words he won’t let out, and sits abruptly, holding his head in his hands again. Rocking. After a moment he says tightly, “Give her my room.”

Jonathan’s brows pull together. “You’re seriously agreeing to this?”

Looking at the floor, Will nods. “I’ll share my room with you.”

“No,” Jonathan says, standing alone. “I’m not sharing my room. I don’t need a sister, or to break my fucking back more than I already have. I’m _tired._ I’m tired of being an adult when I’m _eighteen_ years old!”

Joyce searches him as she picks up her cigarette. Ashes flake onto the table. “What do you need? We are bringing her home, so what can I do to make this okay?”

Slowly he lowers himself into his seat with a shaky breath. They lock eyes. “I need you to travel back in time and choose a man who actually wants to be a father.”

Her face twists, not at all what she expected. “What?”

“Lonnie might have been shit, but he pulled in a paycheck. If he was still around--”

“If he was still around I’d throw him out again! How could you say this with how he treated you and Will? He didn’t treat you well, he was a sick man!”

“Then why were you with him?” Jonathan argues. “Why did you have kids with a man you knew was sick?”

“I love you boys!” Joyce erupts, jamming her cigarette into the ashtray. “Regardless of what your father did, I did the best I could!”

Jonathan slams his fist on the table so hard she jumps. “So did I!”

Will startles from the outburst and scurries instinctively under the table. Parents fighting again. He remembers how to hide. This skill saved him in the Upside Down but tonight it breaks Jonathan’s resolve and Joyce’s heart. They fall silent.

She sees her oldest and knows he’s right. Doing her best is still leaning too heavily on a child to manage a household she created. A household where scars in the walls mirror the veins beneath their skin. Invisible struts and nails, posts cracked and crawling with termites. 

* * *

Tomorrow she works.

Tonight she talks to El.

Halfway to the hospital the absurdity of the mundane overwhelms her. You are born. Go to school. Get a job. Meet a man, marry the man, have kids. You are born. Go to school. Get a job. Help your mother pay the bills. The girl you loved is dead. The man you loved is dead. Your child hides beneath the table and the pasta is overdone.

She swerves onto the shoulder, shifts jerkily to park and screams.

And screams.

And screams.


	16. Eleven

In the morning she is sleepy because of the meds. Steve arrives with bagels and it lifts her up, until a doctor comes in to check on her stump and uses words like _nonedematous_ , _postoperative_ , and _compression._ Steve doesn’t understand these words either. The doctor lets him sit in the room while she cleans and massages El’s stump-- no less painful than the first time after surgery-- and applies a shrinker sock. A thick stocking squeezed over her raw stump. El cries out and in a flash Steve is at the bedside gripping her hand.

Once it’s over, he follows the doctor out. They talk briefly and Steve peeks back into the room with a grin. “I’m going to get you a chair,” he says. She isn’t sure what this means.

A few minutes later he returns with a wheelchair. “You’ve gotta be sick of this room by now. I mean, you’re practically quarantined, one bed and no window. We’re breaking you out.”

“But we’ll get in trouble,” she worries.

He’s checking the metal bars on the chair, patting the seat free of folds. “Nope. Doctor said I can take you upstairs. Apparently there’s a rec room on the top floor they conveniently forgot to tell us about.”

“Rec room?”

“Yeah.” He glances up, bangs bouncing. “You know, like, a room where you can hang out. Probably some couches, a TV, maybe a couple board games. Windows.”

“Windows.” She gives a closed lip smile. “Are we going now?”

“Of course.” He seems satisfied with the chair and straightens up to clap his hands once. “Ready? I’m gonna pick you up and put you in it.”

She stares at the wheelchair, a darkly foreign tool. Years ago in the lab she watched somebody use one. A boy the bad men hurt. On TV, at Hop’s cabin, she’s seen a wheelchair or two, but always a bad thing.

“Crutches?” A pair leans against the wall, to help get El to the tiny bathroom attached to her room.

“I don’t think they want you using those to go that far yet.”

“Why not?” He shrugs. If the chair is her only option, she’ll climb onto it. Herself. She looks at Steve determinedly. “I can do it.”

“Uh…”

“I can.”

Thankfully the days of newspaper hospital gowns are done, otherwise she wouldn’t be comfortable leaving bed, except for the bathroom, which she has no choice over and exclusively trusts Robin or Joyce helping with. Sunday Robin had brought tee shirts and a couple pairs of old pajama pants with the left leg cut short. Joyce had brought a few of her things from the cabin. Clean underwear, Hop’s shirts, a stuffed animal. Max had thoughtfully brought a hairbrush and pulled her hair into braids. In spite of having no shower since before July 4th, El feels human.

Steve watches questioningly as she shifts around, her two knees hanging off the edge of the bed. Both thighs and knees are covered by flannel pyjamas, but the right extends down to reveal a socked foot. The other ends in a fat rounded sock, partially hidden by the striped material. She plants both palms on the mattress to brace her weight as she lowers it onto her right foot.

She’s already out of breath.

“Here,” Steve says, offering a hand. She ignores him, settling her weight onto the right leg and pushing off the bed. There’s a moment of floating, balancing perfectly on one leg without support. Then her knee buckles and she falls toward the chair.

Steve catches her around the waist. “Woah, I got you!” He turns her and ushers her carefully into the wheelchair seat. She catches her breath, tearful and angry. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’ll get better.”

Lies. Happy with distracting company and hazy meds, El has avoided the reality that she won’t walk again. Everyone except Mike revered her ability to do anything. She could and she did. Now, for the first time, she’s up against something she can’t do, and it’s the simplest thing of all. Standing up and taking a step.

Maybe that’s why the boys haven’t come to visit. Mike. They know she’s worthless now.

“I won’t,” she tells Steve. “I won’t get better. I can’t… save anyone.”

He blinks, face pulled into thought. After a moment he gets on one knee and looks up at her. “Forget about saving people, alright? It’s not your job. You’re more than your powers. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she says sadly, plucking at the blue bracelet around her wrist. “I understand.”

But she doesn’t, because her powers were her sense of self.

* * *

Dustin appears in the rec room late that afternoon carrying a box of pizza. A paper bag rests on top, soaked with grease on one side. He huffs exasperatedly and lays the food down on a table. Steve jumps up to check if the pizza is still intact. Dustin says, “El, I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

There’s a big smile on her face, but as he draws closer it fades. No Mike traipsing in behind him. Just he, Steve, and her leg. Is Dustin going to stare? Laugh? He likes her because her powers saved everyone. Now she has nothing but an ugly stump, which he doesn’t even glance at as he crosses the sunny room and bends down to hug her.

“Seriously, I’m sorry,” he says into her braided hair, “about everything.”

She’s misty eyed when he pulls away. “Me, too.”

“So? Can I see?”

“My leg?” He nods enthusiastically. Reluctantly she pulls up the cutoff flannel leg to reveal the stump. It’s like looking at someone else’s leg. She flexes and bends the knee, watches the stump rise and fall. Certainly connected to her, but like a small, untrained wild animal.

“Wow,” Dustin says. He crouches down. “How does it feel?”

“Bad.”

“I bet. Totally badass, though. When you get a prosthetic leg you’ll be bionic.” He straightens up. 

She tilts her head, confused, and lets the material fall around her knee again. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, we’re not going to let you stay in a wheelchair the rest of your life. You’ll walk again soon. Trust me.” His confidence brightens her. He’s the first to respond with unrestrained curiosity to her stump. However polite her visitors are, El sees the discomfort in their eyes. Even Robin and Joyce sometimes.

“Man, you forgot the ranch!” Steve whines, rustling the paper bag.

Over his shoulder Dustin says, “No, I didn’t. Ranch is gross, we eat wings with bleu cheese.” To El, “I hope you’re hungry. Half cheese, half pepperoni ‘cause I have no idea what kind you like, and these.” He swings his backpack off and unzips it, revealing several cans of assorted sodas. “What do you think?”

“Thank you. The food here is…” her face scrunches.

They set up plates at the table closest to the window. Independently El wheels herself into place, although simply swinging her arms a few times breaks a sweat. She takes two slices, one of each. They smell amazing. Not the wings, with their fried folded skin hung on dripping bones. Reminds her too much of the monster. She won’t touch those.

Conversation fills the air. Steve and Dustin have buckets of stories to tell. She enjoys listening, absorbing words and their exaggerated expressions. The sun shimmers blonde in their hair, Dustin’s curly springs and Steve’s smooth feathers.

Coca Cola is syrupy sweet. The bubbles defog her head so she can finally ask, “Where’s Mike?”

The boys drop their show. Steve takes a bite of meat and leaves it up to Dustin. He sets down his pizza crust. “His mom won’t let him out of the house.”

“Grounded?”

“Essentially. She’s mad because he never told her about the Upside Down.”

Not being allowed out of the house didn’t stop El from seeing him last year when he needed her. Why isn’t he showing up when she needs him?

“Is he mad at me?”

“No one’s mad at you. We all miss you, and wish it didn’t end this way.”

“If Mike misses me, why hasn’t he come?”

“Like I said, grounded.”

She takes an indignant sip. “Phone works.”

“Between us, El, I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s too upset to talk to anyone other than Will.”

“Will? Why?” Mike’s best friend has a lot in common with her— a connection to the Upside Down, and the Mind Flayer. They are almost the same species, except he’s a boy. How can Mike talk to him and not her? Because she’s lost her powers? Because she’s ugly now?

Dustin shrugs and looks to Steve, who says, “I’m sure you’ll see him any day. Probably when you get home.”

Her face crumples. She weeps into her soda can.

“Steve, you idiot!”

“Shit, what’d I do?”

“You broke her!”

“Oh, my God, I’m sorry! Sorry, El! Shit!”

“Home,” she cries. “No one’s home.”

Dustin angles his chair square to her. “Listen to me, El. Just because no one’s home at Hopper’s cabin doesn’t mean _you_ don’t have a home. I’m sure Mrs. Byers plans to scoop you up the second you get released, and she’s the best mom you could ask for.”

“Not mine.”

“Yet.”

She sets her soda down. Her cheeks are wet and belly hurts. The meds or sorrow. “Everyone gets hurt.”

They interpret this together in hushed voices as she wipes her eyes on the shoulder of her tee shirt. Deciding not to discuss parents further, they switch tracks and talk about the latest comics Dustin’s reading. The way he relays them gets El laughing, and he promises to bring them next time he visits. She believes him when he says it’ll be soon.

* * *

El is woken up by Steve’s gentle hand on her arm. It’s almost dark out-- dusk or dawn? Dusk. She’d fallen asleep with a dull stomach ache, leaning into Steve’s side, legs propped up on a chair and a folded blanket. He’d been reading _Wonder Woman_ in funny voices. “Mrs. Byers is here now,” he says. “Time for me to go home.”

She blinks and sees Will’s mom— who she calls _Joyce_ since that’s what Hop called her— and remembers Dustin’s earlier sentiment. A home to go to. Should she let herself dream? Magic pills that make her itch have kept her sequestered so her mind doesn’t chase too many rainbows, or tunnels. Dark, void, where is Mike? She’s grateful for the ebb and flow of company, but nobody replaces him. Brown eyes, soft mouth, willow hands. She misses him. She’s been sick, focused on healing and afraid to call, hoping every day he’ll be strong and surprise her. He hasn’t.

“How are you feeling, Mrs. Byers?” Steve stands up and hugs her. 

“Oh, hanging in there,” Joyce sighs. “Tired.”

“You’ve been yelling,” El observes.

“Yeah, I have, but I’m okay.” Joyce smiles at her. “How are you, honey?” El enjoys being called _honey_. Maybe Mama might have called her that if she were healthy. Maybe Joyce saying it is a sign Dustin’s right. A home could happen.

Steve squeezes El’s shoulder and winks. The swelling of his face is down, and his eye is now a watercolor gradient of green-yellow, rather than a mottled purple-red. “See you soon.”

“Bring bagels,” El says. “Poppy seed.”

Steve laughs. “Okay, bagels.”

“Wow,” Joyce marvels when Steve leaves. “He’s sneaking you in _real_ food?”

El smiles, “Dustin brought pizza.”

“Oh, how awesome.”

Joyce sits where Steve had been and takes her hand. They don’t usually hug, as if Joyce is afraid to overwhelm her. Today El reaches both arms out like a baby. A test. Joyce reacts seamlessly, moving in. “Here’s a nice big hug for my girl.” El giggles. She treasures the idea of being a mom’s girl. She needs one, but she’s scared another parent will get hurt because of her.

 _Not your fault_ , Will said. Steve said. Robin said. Max said. Dustin said.

Mike didn’t say, because he hasn’t come. She imagines him sad, like in her visions after she went missing. She hopes Will’s helping him feel better. He’s kind and understanding.

“So.” Joyce pulls away, taking the comforting smell of cigarette smoke and vanilla with her. “I want to tell you something.”

El shimmies herself up to straighten her back. Her face pinches curiously. “What is it?”

“Do you remember Doctor Owens, the man who visited us the first night you were here?” El nods. “Well, yesterday he and I read through Hop’s will.”

She thinks of Mike’s friend. “Will?”

“A will is a written legal document where a person says what they want people to do with all their stuff when they die.”

Gears of meaning churn and click. El’s curious face falls to sorrow. “Hop knew he was going to die?”

“Everyone knows they’re going to die. We’ll die too, someday, but hopefully not soon and not before we make ourselves happy lives.”

“How can we be happy?”

Joyce wrings her hands out. “You have moments. Like when Robin and Max come to see you. Over time you build up those moments so there’s more happy than sad in your life. That’s our goal, right?”

“Right.”

“Now, because you were Hop’s adopted daughter, everything he owned goes to you.”

“Me?” she frowns, entirely lost.

“Yes, you. Since you’re a kid, you’ll need help. You’ll need a home. Hopper made it clear he wants me to take care of you, and Doctor Owens is going to make sure it happens as quickly as possible.”

“Why you?”

“We were good friends. He believed in my parenting.”

“Just friends?”

Joyce laughs lightly. “Friends can love each other, too, you know. Love isn’t just for families and boyfriends.”

“Hop was a boy-friend.”

“Sure, but not like you and Mike were.”

Joyce knows. So much fun turned into sadness. “He hasn’t come to see me.”

“He’s got a lot going on. You do, too. Time apart is probably good for you guys.”

“What happens now?” El asks. “With me.”

“El, when you get out of the hospital next week you’re coming home to live with us. Me, Jonathan, Will, and you. You’re a part of our family now. I hope that’s alright.”

She is stunned. “Family?”

“Family.”

“You _promise_?”

“Promise,” Joyce says seriously. “Big time.”

A pause to process. El’s mouth fills with drool, salivating over the fantasy manifesting. Each gland in her body wants to outpour gratitude yet is halted by fear. She swallows, a messy sound. Her nose runs as she cries, first quietly-- as she has been conditioned to-- then loudly, a lament of disbelief, eyes shut tight against the typhoon of thoughts.

_I’m the monster. I’ll hurt them._

Mike’s voice. _You’re not the monster._

Billy’s voice. _And when you are gone, we are going to end your friends._

What if it isn’t over? What if her new family gets hurt because of her?

Joyce wraps an arm around El, who resists the comfort and folds forward, holds her stomach, gropes the stiff couch cushion. Emotions writhe through her, a body-mind connection she wishes could be severed like her lower leg. Labored groans expand and shrink her lungs rhythmically, but they do not soothe. She opens her eyes and searches for purchase.

She sees Joyce. “Here. Come here.” She reaches her other arm around El’s legs and draws her forward. Responding unconsciously, El shifts. In an instant she’s in Joyce’s lap, cradled.

El has never been cradled in a mother’s lap, with two arms wrapped tight around her whole body, rocking. “I’ve got you now,” Joyce whispers. “I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.”

She has never sobbed in a mother’s arms, nor heard a woman cry with her. “I know, baby. This is _so_ hard. But we’re gonna make it, believe me.”

Coming from Joyce with kisses on the crown of her head are the words that El, in fourteen lonely years, has never, not once, heard.

“I love you.”


	17. Jonathan

He’s wrong. Always wrong. Considering all she has sacrificed, implying his mother shouldn’t have had them is reckless, cruel, and scary. Does he actually think she shouldn’t have, or is he losing his mind? Losing Nancy was the last straw, and he’s running out of Vicodin. At the hospital he liked how they calmed him, but felt like he didn’t deserve them for actual pain. Cleverly, he saved the pills to be used when he really needed them.

After tonight’s argument, he needed them.

Will has been shut up sobbing in his room since Mom left, and only now that Jonathan is pacified does he have the gall to apologize. To play the big brother role he’s recently neglected. He knocks twice on his brother’s door. The crying stops. “Go away.”

“Come on, Will. I want to apologize.”

“Apologize to Mom, not me!”

“I will, okay? Can we please talk first? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

A beat passes. Footsteps. The door swings open and Will stands there, eyes and cheeks red. “No, but you did. And you tried to convince Mom not to take El, who— in case you didn’t hear— is legally her responsibility now.”

Jonathan begins a sigh that stops short because breathing hurts. Will adds, “You used me to change her mind.”

“Well, you weren’t going to speak up, so I did.”

“Speak up about what?”

“El and Mike.” 

He shakes his head disappointedly. “You said you wanted to be alone. So do I.” He starts to shut the door.

Jonathan holds his hand out. “Can we just talk?”

After a moment of judgement the door swings open all the way. They sit on the edge of Will’s bed, some distance apart. “Putting aside the fact that it has to happen, are you really okay with El moving in?”

“Yes. She saved my life, I owe her everything. How I feel about Mike doesn’t matter.”

“How _do_ you feel about Mike? I mean, you seem jealous of his attention to El.”

Will blushes hard. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.” His knee bounces. “I just miss how things used to be. Playing games, hanging out with my friends.”

“Isn’t El one of your friends?”

“I hardly know her.” He looks away, knee still bouncing. Up, down.

Jonathan breathes slowly. Pain is gone and his head is fuzzy, each word in and out a soft, plushy thing. “It’s okay if you like boys.”

His knee stops bouncing. “What?”

“You’ve never talked about liking girls. Ever. And I’ve seen the way you look at Mike.”

Genuinely, Will asks, “How do I look at him?”

“Like you never want to look away.”

He stares at the floor and says quietly, “I don’t.”

“So I was right. If Mike comes over to see El you’ll feel—”

“Visible. I’m visible to him, but I know where I stand. People don’t like my breed of freak. You know,” he drops the label out like a stone, “homosexuals.”

He pretends it’s not strange to hear. “People like Bowie, and Freddie Mercury. They’re freaks.”

“Yeah, freaks who make incredible music. What do I do? Nothing. Kids at school already won’t come near me. They think I’m cursed.”

“You’re not cursed. You’re not a reminder of the bad stuff. I’m just frustrated we had to go through it.” Funny how honestly he can speak thanks to chemical alteration.

“Me, too,” Will nods. “So… are you gonna tell Mom?”

“About your crush on Mike? No. This stays between us.” His grin is easy.

Will returns the smile. “Thanks. I missed hanging out with you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

* * *

The movers come Wednesday morning, before Mom leaves for her second day back at work. Mike, Dustin, and Steve. Again Steve is here to do what he can’t-- lift and carry things-- which adds alcohol to fire. Jonathan watches enviously as Mom gives him money, since later he’ll be renting a U-Haul. Today is going to be chaos in four parts: clearing excess junk, bringing Will’s stuff into Jonathan’s room, getting El’s furniture from the cabin and, finally, moving it into their house.

Jonathan’s still ashamed about last night. Regardless if he accepts it, his family now includes a telekinetic orphaned amputee, one that his girlfriend’s brother decided to dote over in lieu of his long-time best friend. Jonathan’s disdain for Mike is new, and this morning he takes care to absorb him soberly. He hasn’t seen Mike since last Thursday at Hop’s cabin, when he was pale and leggy, energized and blabbing about loving El.

Presently he looks like Hell, eerily quiet and small, like he’s trying not to take up space, yet drawing Will’s worried eyes. Suddenly the softness of last night’s private confession is unreachable; Jonathan realizes his brother is pining over a boy who’s never going to reciprocate the love he wants to give. It isn’t equal-- Mike is oblivious-- and it isn’t fair.

The movers start their day where Will and Jonathan left off. Last night, post Vicodin-tainted talk, the brothers worked through one bedroom at a time, consolidating and making piles-- trash, donation. Casting the weight off his shoulders made Will soar, but Jonathan moved like a sloth through hangers in his closet, drawers in his dresser, and posters tacked into the walls. Mom was impressed with their progress, relieved they seemed to have resolved their earlier issue.

Now she stands on the porch with him, happily watching the others build and stuff boxes. Busy worker bees twitch and exercise their wings, carrying junk to the curb and piling donation boxes into the back of Mom’s car. Dustin and Steve are buzzing exuberantly until Steve drops an old boombox while carrying it across the driveway.

“Watch it!” Jonathan shouts too late.

Will rushes to help gather the pieces as Dustin reprimands, “Seriously, Steve? We _just_ started and you’re already breaking shit!”

“Hey,” Mom calls out, “I don’t like hearing you guys swear.” She trots over to Steve and pats his shoulder. “Just need a little warm up time, right?”

He is stupidly confused. “I guess so.”

* * *

Mom leaves with the donations and they start in Jonathan’s room, cleaning and pulling dirty clothes and linens, prepping to move furniture. Mike volunteers to do the wash, evidently a new skill. Jonathan laughs. Thirteen, learning to do laundry. Must be lucky having money. Having parents who care.

He thinks of Nancy. He can’t think of Nancy.

From the doorway he watches Steve, Dustin, and Will move his full size bed flush against the wall. They shift the dresser as well, rearranging things until they have space to move in Will’s bed. As he watches the space of his room get cut in half he thinks, _If Will is sacrificing his privacy to give El hers, I can handle this._ Here, El won’t be abused or isolated. Here, he reminds himself, she will bloom.

* * *

“Mike, you’re absolutely useless.”

“I’m tired.” He sits opposite Jonathan on Will’s bare mattress, now in the shared room. 

“Excuses!” Dustin chirps. “Will’s been working on this since last night, and even though butterfingers over here keeps flinging shit, they’re both still going strong!”

“I’m telling you, man,” Steve mumbles, “quit calling me that.”

Over him Dustin explains, “The only one allowed to sit right now is Jonathan, cause a Flayed guy broke his back.”

“Alright," Mike replies annoyedly, "I'll help! What are we bringing in next?”

Everyone turns to Will, who rocks on his heels. “Well, if we take out my dresser drawers it’ll be easier to carry.”

“Great, let's do it then.”

The moment Mike is on his feet his eyes unfocus and he collapses to the floor with a double digit _thud._ Three boys crouch around him like a hyper-fine Renaissance painting where dialogue is written on the dark faces of men, here contemporized by colors and brushstrokes lacking dignity. Dustin: _Jesus, Mike, what the hell?_ Steve: _Woah, woah, woah, is he okay?_ Will: _Wake up, Mike. Wake up!_ Jonathan: ever observing, perched on his stripped bed in silence.

Mike’s eyes flutter open. He is white, freckled face slack, confused as to why he is on the floor.

“Are you okay?” Will pats down Mike’s arms and shoulders as if searching for the pocket poison that reset his clock. Jonathan has done this to Nancy. He has seen his mother like this as well-- shaky, entirely preoccupied with other people’s problems, choosing to put their ignoble needs ahead of her own sanity.

Mike is selfish. He brushes Will’s hands away and mutters, “Fine.”

Steve’s mouth hangs open. “Dude, are you sick?”

“I’m _fine_.” He draws himself to a spindly stand.

Yesterday Will said Mike hasn’t been eating or sleeping, so Jonathan casually remarks, “He’s hungry.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dustin says. “Man the hell up, Mike!”

Will’s standing, touching his elbow in case he falls back down. Color hasn’t returned, making the scabs on his face stick out as garishly as Steve’s lip sutures. Will searches him. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Breakfast.”

Isn’t their tagline _friends don’t lie_?

Mike slides past him and leaves the room.

* * *

Once Will goes onto the porch, Jonathan sidles to the open living room window. He stands off to the side, hidden but within earshot. His brother sits beside Mike on the edge of the porch and hands him a short glass of orange juice and a soft slice of buttered bread. “Here.”

Reluctantly Mike takes the bread. One tiny bite. “I can’t,” he gags. “I’ve tried, I just can’t.”

Will rubs Mike’s back. “Why don’t I tell you a story? To distract you while you try again.”

“Sure.”

He retells Mike the plot of _The Hobbit_ , the first part anyway, describing vividly Bilbo’s Shire home. It works. Mike gets the whole slice of bread down, and half the sour juice. The moment recalls Jonathan nursing Will when he was sick. The care you take of a child should be different from the care you take of a friend. At least, he thinks so, despite having nothing to stand this concept up against. 

* * *

Inside, Will sits Mike on the couch beside Jonathan and returns to the bedrooms. Music bumps through the stereo; Will better be the only person touching it.

Mike stares at the floor, walls, black television screen, anywhere but at Jonathan. There’s improvement in his color, although relentless ghoulish circles darken his eyes and an odor hangs about him like a musty shawl. In another lifetime Jonathan would take pity and offer advice to Nancy’s sensitive brother, the same as he would to Will, but lately he has no patience.

“Look,” he begins, “we don’t need you here if you’re going to make things harder on him.”

Mike turns slowly, as if just realizing Jonathan is there. “What?”

“We’ve got enough going on without you passing out because you’re not taking care of yourself.”

His ugly face prunes up. “My _sister_ died. It’s not my fault I have no appetite.”

Jonathan snorts. “This isn’t a competition.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My _girlfriend_ died. My ribs are broken, who cares?”

Mike’s brow flicks, his eyes widening in shock briefly. “I do.”

“Not enough. You’re being unfair to Will. Last year you were one of his lifelines, the closest thing outside of family. Then you dropped him for her. You abandoned him.”

His lips part to speak but no words come. He is disturbingly like Nancy with a thin neck, the cords of which work as his big eyes become reflective marbles under messy bangs, wavy and slick with grease from days of neglect. He takes a sharp inhale and releases a little sob.

“Don’t cry in front of me,” Jonathan spits.

Mike shallows out his breathing and sits there, silent tears dripping down his lank face. Eventually he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Tell it to Will, then leave. And when El moves in, don’t come around here for her.”

“Okay, I get it. I won’t come around at all.”

“Alright.”

He pauses, gives Jonathan a moment to redact his vitriolic statement. When he holds strong, Mike stands and floats to the bedroom. The music and raucous stop. Muffled voices and _what, why?_ Then Will is chasing him through the living room, spilling worried words in his wake. _Talk to me! What’s going on?_

Steve and Dustin tumble into the room, puzzled. Their heads turn to the open front door. Sneakers on gravel and the scrape of a bike being propped up. Dustin flings his arms open.“What the hell happened?” 

Jonathan shrugs.

“Seriously?” Steve advances. “Mike came in crying--”

“He _apologized_ to Will for quote-unquote _everything_ \--”

“And said he can’t see him anymore?”

Jonathan shrugs.

Dustin prods, “Did he say anything?”

From outside: “Mike, wait!”

“Did _you_ say anything?” A nasty implication from Steve, however true.

“We were just talking.”

“About _what_?” Dustin presses.

Will bursts back in with a gust of distress. “He’s gone!” Steve runs a hand through his ridiculous hair, _shit, shit,_ as Will seethes, “What did you do?!”

“Enlightened him.”

“To tears?”

Steve declares, “We gotta go after him. He passed out like twenty minutes ago, he shouldn’t be riding his bike.”

“You’re right,” Dustin agrees. “We need to pick up the van anyway, let’s go!”

“Why can’t he see me anymore?” Will asks. Then his upset morphs to outrage. “You shared my secret, didn’t you?”

Behind him Steve goes, “You got a secret?” Dustin smacks his arm. “Shut up!”

“That was supposed to stay between us, Jonathan!”

“It is. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Fine!” Shouting hurts his body. “Think what you want.”

“I think you told him and he freaked out.” He looks at Steve and Dustin. “We need to find him.”

“Let him go.”

Will spins around. “I’m not speaking to you anymore! Steve, do you have your keys?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, somewhere,” he pats his pockets. 

“For God’s sake, you’re losing everything!” Dustin hollers. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know, Dustin, I don’t know! It’s like my brain got scrambled by the Russians. I can’t think!”

“Have you ever really been able to?” Jonathan bites.

“Jesus, at least I’m trying to help.”

“Oh, right, my mother gave you money. Was it for the U-Haul van, or babysitting?”

“Screw you, man! It’s our job to watch out for each other.”

Dustin takes Steve by the arm. “Come on, let’s give him space.” They exit through the open front door, sun streaming across the floor, gentle particles from summer plants swimming in. Will shakes his head, dumbfounded, then storms out and slams the door.

Self-awareness settles with the start of an engine. Jonathan is always the quiet presence, the positive influence, the boy who supports his brother. Never the loose canon. Never the one who incites fear.

Now silence. Wash cycle must have finished. He won’t be able to do it-- lifting damp clothes out of a machine, loading them into a basket and toting it out to the lines. He shuffles into the kitchen and peers out the window to inspect Mike’s handiwork. Elementary. Clothes pins askew, shirts hung upside down and towels unevenly draped.

If he couldn’t do laundry until now, there’s a good chance Nancy couldn't either. Jonathan would be happy to teach her. You know, if she were still alive.


	18. Sam

Sam takes a deep breath before ringing the bell. He wouldn’t be here if Joyce hadn’t suggested he make a house call. Last week they let Karen see, and now there is proof that Nancy was inside the Mind Flayer. The woman deserves this news in person.

Canned television laughter wafts through open windows. Perhaps no one will hear the bell and he can retreat safely to his car, the Wheelers none the wiser. He glances down at the large, stuffed envelope clutched in his left hand. He has to do this. He rings the bell. A man shouts, _Mike? Get the door!_ Right, Will’s loyal, clever friend. Nancy's brother. A veteran. Collateral.

The door opens, but it isn't Mike. Rather, a squishy man with Coke bottle glasses who drones, “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Wheeler?” The man nods. Sam offers his hand. “Dr. Owens. I’m here to speak about Nancy.”

“About time you found her!"

Sam squints. “Found her? Mr. Wheeler, have you and your wife spoken about the Starcourt explosion?”

“Well sure,” he says easily. “There was an explosion, and since then Nancy hasn’t been home. Karen believes she’s dead.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “She thinks a _monster_ killed her.”

Ah. In less than a week Karen let slip the truth. Sam can’t blame her; his expectations weren’t so high for a grieving mother. Mr. Wheeler seems absolutely disbelieving, which is good for secret-keeping, but terrible for the sake of trust. If a family can’t rally in a time of loss, they’re effectively doomed.

“Can I please speak with Karen and Mike first? Alone.”

Ted shifts and lets him in, asks him to wait in the foyer. Beautiful house from what he can see. The kitchen, further off, has a fun patterned floor, lit by evening summer sun from the window over the sink. Dinner is in the air, and Sam wishes he could follow the inviting aroma deeper inside. Instead, he must dutifully deliver a death notice. When he leaves this house the Wheelers lives will be forever changed.

A harried and disheveled Karen greets him. Sam requests she call Mike and find them a secluded spot to talk, where Ted won’t hear. Anxiously she leads him into the den, just off of the foyer, stealing suspicious glances at the envelope and its oval-shaped bulge. He sits in a stiff loveseat, his back facing shelves of collectibles, and watches her hurry to open what must be the basement door. She yells into the abyss and earns no reply.

A minute later Mike appears, nothing how Sam remembers. A thirteen year old's growth is a given, but not the raccoon-ish eyes and unkempt clothes, nor the dirty fingers (is that dried blood?) that dig into oily roots of black hair. “Is everything okay?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Please have a seat with us.” Like a distrusting animal, he settles himself on the sofa beside his mother. Sam sets the envelope evenly on his lap and begins. “I’ve come with documents and hard evidence of Nancy’s death.”

Karen clutches her chest. “I— I was just praying that maybe you’d been wrong, maybe you’d come to say--” her face crumples. However, like a well-bred elastic housewife, she pulls herself together, if only for another moment. Poor woman, her life’s work was to make this home and here she is watching it fall apart. Mike studies her.

“What you two have seen must stay between us, is that clear?” They nod. “What I’m about to show you won’t quite reflect what you’ve seen, though I assure you the data is valid. You see, the Mind Flayer will never be brought to the public eye.”

“So that means—?”

“We can’t tell Dad.”

He nods. “Precisely.”

“Well, we have to tell him something,” Karen says frantically. “He already doesn’t believe me!”

“Once I’ve finished talking to him, he’ll believe that Nancy was killed. He’ll believe she was killed in an explosion that took place at Starcourt on the night of July Fourth, after a selectively advertised fireworks show went awry. But we all know the truth-- that what really killed her wasn’t from our world.”

Karen blinks back tears, years of future plans going up in flames. Mike tips his chin at the envelope. “What’s in there?”

“Of course," Sam says, brandishing it. "While what’s in here should bring closure, it will not offer any relief. As such, you and the other suffering families will soon be receiving information about counseling services.”

“Counseling?” Karen says rejectively. “I don’t care about that, I just want to _see_.”

“Alright.” Sam cracks the paper open and extracts several documents discussing how and where Nancy’s DNA was found in the mall. He waits patiently while mother and son scour them, answering questions as they arise. Once they’ve looked over everything, Karen whispers, “My God.”

"You said documents _and_ hard evidence," Mike reminds him, "so what’s that?” He points to the object wedged into the envelope.

Sam sighs. “You’re not going to like this.”

"As if we've liked anything about this so far?"

"Michael, please!"

"This is the only piece of Nancy we found," Sam says, ignoring Mike's warranted attitude. He draws a clear plastic evidence bag from the envelope. Inside is a discolored disc with spokes that resembles the partially scavenged carcass of a cracked-open crab. He passes it to Karen. “From the sternum.”

Mike’s mouth twitches, then hangs slack. At first Karen stares, computing. Then, she carefully removes the bare bone from plastic and turns it between her fingers-- her nail polish is as chipped as Mike's are dirty. Little side effects of mourning. The plastic bag drifts to the floor, and Karen's broken expression brings Mike to tears. “Mom. Mom, don’t look at it.” He reaches out for the bone.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” she growls. “Don’t you dare touch her!”

“Mom, I--”

She shrieks, sliding to the floor to get away from him. One hand claws the carpet as she folds over, clutching the sharp bone to her heart-- bone her body created. Deafening wails thicken the air around them. _God, why!_

Mike’s chest puffs in and out rapidly, a prerequisite to the imminent breakdown-- which never comes. He swallows it down and looks at Sam pleadingly. _What do I do?_

“Be there for your mom.”

The boy nods once and kneels beside Karen, placing a gentle hand on her back. This time she doesn’t recoil. Frankly, she might not even notice he’s there. Sam nods. “That’s it. You’re a tough boy, Mike. Stay strong for her.”

As the words leave his mouth he regrets them. Recent research is teaching him that boys are just as apt to weep as their female counterparts, and they must. If Mike manages to hold himself together on behalf of his blindsided mother, he could be tightly wound for a long time. When can he release? See, the problem is that boys, they need to be _taught_ how to feel. And girls? They need the world to listen. Sam should pull Mike aside, engage him in discussion, but he’s already spoken his piece.

Now he clears his throat. “I’m going to speak with your father. I’ll check back in before I leave.”

Numbly, Mike nods, pounded by the waves of Karen’s howling grief. The quiet child is convenient; numbness can look like strength. Sam has wrongfully praised the child for his numbness when in truth, he looks one drop of acid away from dissolving.


	19. Karen

Though moments of delusion tell her it isn’t true, she knows. Dr. Owens didn’t need to prove anything. She’s known since the officer brought home one shell-shocked child instead of two, since the understanding in Joyce’s eyes, and the marked off area where Billy was pronounced dead. Since the way Michael said _I’m sorry_. Nancy is gone. 

Karen’s mother pulls into the driveway Friday morning as she is setting out bowls, spoons, and cereal boxes for whoever can manage a meal. It was Mike who told her, took the phone from Karen’s shaking hands Wednesday night when she lost her words. _Nana? Yeah, it’s me Mike. No, no. Uh, there was an accident. Nancy’s dead._

Although she occasionally she sees him float through the kitchen and waver in front of the empty fridge, he hasn’t shown up at mealtime in days. She’s given up engaging with him. At least he’s safe at home; he hasn’t left since Wednesday, and only because Joyce asked. He’d come home earlier than expected, claimed he was sick, and hid upstairs for a while. He even refused to come out when Will, Dustin, and Steve came by to check on him. Eventually he made it to the basement, though, where Karen dredged him up for Dr. Owens.

There is a curt rap on the door. The woman lets herself in and sets her bags in the front hall. “Karen? Where are you?”

“Kitchen table,” she calls flatly. Once, this sunny room was warm and inviting. Now it is too bright, aggravating her constant crying headache, unbearable like eating, sleeping, and moving her feet.

Holly looks up. “Nana?”

“Oh,” her mom says at the threshold. “Oh, dear.” Karen stands and lets herself be held as she breaks down again, because not even this wizened woman can fix the simple absence of a body in space and, in so doing, allow Karen to stand clear of the emotions that avalanche over and over again. No matter how often she exhausts her tears, there’s always another morning of remembering, another day where her daughter’s room is empty and her crystal clear voice is a song in Karen’s head.

“Ted’s at work?” her mother asks, finally pulling away. Karen nods as she is offered a napkin and shown into a seat. Condensation beads on the milk jug. She counts each one as her mom kisses Holly, who told Karen Wednesday night _Nancy is in Heaven_. Somewhere between the call and fighting with Ted, Mike had told his little sister. Mercilessly Karen had turned her unresolved anger onto her son. _Why would you say that? I should have been the one to say it! Me!_ With a lump in his throat Mike threw out a defense: _I wasn’t going to lie to her!_ And Karen, shrieking: _Well, you had no problem lying to me!_

“Where’s Michael?”

Karen shrugs. “Basement, maybe.”

Her mom moves gracefully across the room, a beautifully aging Italian who raised four children and an alcoholic husband. She opens the door and descends into darkness, ascending moments later with a forlorn boy. Karen resents this; he doesn’t obey _her_ so easily. Doesn’t respect her enough to talk.

Nana roughly pats the table, indicating where Mike is to sit. He obliges, slumped and disinterested in the bowl of S’mores Crunch she sets in front of him. “Sit up,” she commands. He tries, to an unnatural affect. To Karen she notes, “He’s pale, and what is this on his face?”

“I’m sitting right here.”

“And I’m speaking with your mom. Once you’re finished you will go outside and play.”

“I don’t want to play.”

“Of course not, but you need to. Locking yourself in a dungeon will only make this harder. Now _eat_.” She pats the table again and Mike lifts his spoon laboriously. He brings sustenance into his body— one, two, three bites— but when her mother bustles over to the kitchen pantry, he drops the spoon and folds his arms.

“Michael!” Karen says accusingly.

He returns the accusation with a snotty, “Mom?” tipping his chin towards her own half-eaten bowl.

* * *

Late afternoon they return home with far more food and toiletries than are necessary— a side-effect of her parents having survived the Depression. Five of everything can’t hurt, six if the item is on sale! Thankfully they hadn’t run into anyone Karen knows. She appreciated her mother’s efforts to get her out of the house and thus out of her head, but the fog follows everywhere. She hardly remembers the trip, and presently keeps putting pantry items in the fridge, and produce in the cabinets.

Mike is called into the kitchen to help so Karen can go upstairs and lie down. He had been allowed to stay home while they shopped, under one condition: he needed to shower. His hair is clean but unbrushed, and the shadows around his eyes that Karen hoped would come out in the wash stubbornly distort his face. The scab on his bruised cheek is covered by a large Band-Aid that is already spotted with blood. Was he picking at it?

His behavior was so strange this week, so alien. Earlier he haplessly kicked a ball around the yard under the hawkish eye of Nana, who was composing a grocery list at the kitchen counter. Karen watched him and felt she was observing a stray. It occurred to her that he is someone else to the world, interpreted a hundred ways by a hundred people, and filling roles she’ll never know.

How did this happen? If she could go back, what would she need to do differently, to make them trust her? If they’d told her the truth from the beginning, could it have saved them from such cruel Providence? Why is her family being punished? God, He must be a man. They are directors of tragedies, producers of hurt. What audience desires performances where players are eviscerated on stage, blinded by their own instruments, and scalped by sheer force of wind?

Certainly not the mother who miscarried eighteen years out from conception.

* * *

“Why don’t you spend tonight with me?” her mom suggests as they change the master bed linens. Since Ted sleeps on the recliner, she’s setting up the woman here. “You already spent an hour in her room today. You shouldn’t be in there too often, alone with those thoughts. It won’t serve you.”

Karen’s been sleeping on top of Nancy’s covers since last Friday, disturbing the room with only a throw blanket and a glass of tepid water. Alternately she cries and fantasizes, imagining Nancy’s away at college, falling into fever dreams where her daughter bounces upstairs, happy her bedroom is exactly how she left it and _so_ excited to see her mom. Every time she wakes up the hurt hits anew.

“I’m just not ready yet,” she reasons.

“I expect you never will be.” Her mom hugs her goodnight, kisses her. “But you _will_ survive this.”

Regardless if it’s true, Karen can’t fathom surviving. When her father died, years before his time, Karen was inspired by how quickly her mother turned pain into strength and determination. Seventeen years later, Karen knows if Ted died she’d fully recover, too, and run the household smoother than ever. But that was a husband-- not a child-- lost to sclerosis of the liver; he’d become alcoholic after serving in the war. Nancy was a baby then, Michael not yet planned and Holly not even a thought, so Karen had no frame of reference at that point for such great loss, and no need for a vision of surviving it.

On the way back to Nancy’s room she notices a line of light below Mike’s closed door. Is he still up, or did he forget to turn the lights off again? Fall of ‘83 he’d grown into the habit, falling asleep with the lights on and a book propped open on his chest. She thought it had stopped. What does she know about him, though? Not a thing.

Softly she knocks. No response. She enters, immediately taken aback by the pile of trophies facedown on the floor. The bookshelf by the door has been cleared off except for the lit lamp, same as the shelves on the wall. Games, toys, and books strewn upside down or broken open in careless piles. When did this happen, and why?

Michael is asleep on his side, facing the wall, clutching a glossy purple sheet she doesn’t recognize. Stepping to his bed is difficult. Mounds of clothes— the still damp towel from his shower— lay like land mines. She sits on the edge of the bed and touches his wingtip shoulder. He doesn’t rouse or startle as she rubs her palm in a slow circle. _He’ll catch up with himself soon_ , she thinks, because acknowledging he’s stopped eating would sting. Her mother’s here now, she’ll snap him back into shape.

The silence rings. She leans over to hear him breathing, searching for her child, the one who smelled like soft fall when he was little and could still fit in her arms. Before the outside world knew him in ways she never will, before it changed him.

Karen wants to whisper _I love you_ , but the words would clank too loud, her own voice an agitant. How many of her words have been wrong? Instead she kisses his head and shuts off the lamp on the bedside table, under the bunk. Then she tiptoes to the door, noticing the mirror above his dresser is covered by an old flannel. She shakes her head and clicks off the bookshelf lamp, shutting the door behind her.

By the time she reaches Nancy’s bedroom, his lights are flipped back on.


	20. Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credits: Live Aid Setlist, July 13, 1985 (“Rockin’ All Over the World”, by Status Quo; “I Don’t Like Mondays”, The Boomtown Rats; “Every Breath You Take”, Sting and Phil Collins; “Bohemian Rhapsody”, Queen)  
> [Spotify link in work summary]

Friday there’s a live press conference on TV. Dr. Owens, flanked by the governor of Indiana and the new acting mayor, explains how a group of Russians had advertised a special holiday lights show, luring innocent American citizens to the mall, where they detonated a bomb and killed nearly one hundred people. A long list of names is read off, including Billy Hargrove, Chief Jim Hopper, and Nancy Wheeler. Both a Saturday night vigil and Sunday public Mass are announced.

Will should join his friends and dozens of others in the Starcourt parking lot tomorrow, where displays of photographs, flowers, and candles will honor those lost, but it’s the day of Live Aid-- a concert he’s been anticipating for weeks! Jonathan was, too, except now he’s always angry, or asleep, and besides, he and Will aren’t exactly talking. Whatever happened on Wednesday remains a mystery; Jonathan won’t admit what he said to Mike. Will told Mom about it in confidence, and her best advice was to wait it out. Grief is making Jonathan sick.

The heartbreaking scene in the front yard keeps interrupting Will’s thoughts, along with a thousand other hallucinatory memories. Seemingly unreal things that _happened_. Billy’s hands around El’s throat, her eyes rolling back in her head and Mike weilding a lead pipe like a baseball bat. Wood splintering over their heads. Glass shattering, ear splitting shrieks and neon lights. The mechanical purr of a monster that once breathed inside of him.

A tumble of words in warm summer breeze.

_Mike, what did I do wrong?_

_Nothing! Nothing, I just can’t be here anymore, and I can’t come back._ Shaking hands lifted his bike. _I’m sorry,_ he kept repeating, fighting back tears _. I’m sorry._

It made Will’s stomach hurt. He stood over Mike’s front wheel-- _Wait!--_ and gripped the handlebars. Their fingers overlapped and he foolishly thought he could keep Mike there with him, forever. _It doesn’t matter what you did,_ he had said. _I meant what I told you, I--_

_I know._

* * *

Mom drops him off at the hospital early. El wants to watch Live Aid, and Will is eager for company. The rest of the party is going to Starcourt. Will refuses to go back there, and while El would probably go for the sake of their friends, she shouldn’t.

He hasn’t seen her in a few days, since he’s trying to be helpful at home. _Trying_ , because he easily loses track of time. Rather, time loses him. He comes to awareness standing in other rooms and, one frightening time, outside in the dark by the debris of Castle Byers. He’s scared it’s starting again-- or maybe never left?-- but his family has enough to worry about, so he keeps these spells to himself.

She’s perched on the edge of the bed, flexing her knees and extending one leg at a time, like a kid dangling on a swing. Mom said they’re tapering her off the pain meds, which is good. She’s more alert and less red. Steve said the presence of friends gets El to eat, especially if they bring non-hospital food, so his backpack is full of snacks and art supplies.

Robin is telling her a story, sitting in a chair with her back to the door. Will knocks once. El looks up, and the first thing she notices are his his bare legs. Stupid, who wears shorts around a recent amputee? “I’m sorry,” he blurts, “I didn’t think--”

“Will!” Robin stands tall, her sand-colored hair pulled into a wild ponytail. If he didn’t already admire her for helping El, Dustin, and Steve, he’d like her because of her Talking Heads tee shirt. She pulls him into an unexpected hug. “I hear you two are watching Live Aid today?”

“Yes! A _concert_.” El holds out her right arm and waves the left hand over it, as if strumming an instrument. “Music,” she says, repeating the motion.

Will tilts his head, confused.

“I’m teaching her sign language.”

“Oh, right! I think Steve mentioned your mom’s deaf. He helped us put El’s new room together on Wednesday.”

“How exciting!” Robin turns to El. “Max and I will help you decorate once you’re home. It’s going to be _amazing_.”

El beams. Although she and Robin have known each other for a week, their mutual adoration stirs the air, sweeping Will’s anxieties up overhead, banishing them like cottony bits of pollen as if they had never existed at all.

“Robin and Steve can sing _good_ ,” El informs pointedly.

“Seriously?” He sets his backpack on the floor. “Steve can sing?”

Robin gives a lighthearted shrug. “The dingus continues to astonish us daily. His music taste is questionable, though.”

“What kind of music do you listen to? And, El, did you like the mixtape I made you last year?” He’d never gotten the chance to ask, since El was quickly coveted by her boyfriend.

She nods. “Until Mike borrowed it and never gave it back.”

“Um, rude!” Robin exclaims.

“Rude,” El and Will agree in unison. They glance at each other in surprise and sheepishly grin. In spite of sharing an unspoken otherworldly connection, they’ve only been in the same room a handful of times.

“What was on the mixtape?” Robin asks, settling back into her chair. Will finds the other chair and pulls it near. Embarrassedly he explains the basic pop and rock he compiled last fall. “Makes sense,” Robin affirms. “You started simple.”

They list favorite bands and songs, taking turns until El’s nurse interrupts. Time for a routine stump massage. He and Robin watch quietly on the side as El-- revulsed-- touches her own stump, reluctantly learning the self-care procedures she’ll need in order to be released. It’s hard to watch her fingertips skate over garish metal staples and mush the bruised tissue. Will feels her pain.

Then it’s nearly noon! Robin has to go, to prepare for the vigil and meet Steve. As she helps El into the wheelchair, anchored by Will’s firm grip on the push bars, he wonders if they’re dating. Popular guys like Steve usually don’t chase band geeks.

Robin hugs El, then stops to fix one of the two French braids keeping her hair in place. “Soon enough you’ll be in your new home with this seriously cool kid as a brother.”

In sync they squeak, “Brother?”

“Aw!” Robin laughs, glancing at El in the chair and Will behind her. “You’re both blushing! It’s okay, I give it a week and just like _that_ ,” she snaps. “Stuck together like glue.”

Gravity locks him to the spot. Stark reminder that Tuesday night he made a commitment: put aside his feelings for Mike in order to give El a proper home. She deserves all the happiness she could dream of, untainted by the musings in his chest. If it means giving up his best friend, well, he’s already used to being disappointed by Mike Wheeler. So he’ll be El’s brother, and whatever they choose to do is up to them. He was stupid to think _I love you_ could become something between them.

* * *

The rec room is how Steve and Dustin described it. Big windows, summer sunshine wasted on old tables and chairs, a small TV and stiff couches. It smells stuffy, but way better than the room downstairs, where bleach, stale meat, and the doggy scent of healing skin mix. There’s no one else here; the hospital has been largely cleared out this week, aside from geriatrics, the terminally ill, and laboring women. A perfect place for sad teens to grasp at straws of happiness and pretend they’re anywhere other than Hawkins.

 _Rockin’ All Over the World_ kicks off with its swinging 50’s sock hop rhythm. A sea of people move to the beat. El marvels, and Will bobs his head, humming. He only knows half the words and is too shy to sing. El’s eyes swing between him and the TV, dimples framing her grin. Her slightly out-of-line incisors highlight the innocent mess of youth, contagious.

Next, The Boomtown Rats come on, and El listens hard, leaning forward to catch their dramatic angst. _Tell me why I don’t like Mondays!_ How much does she pick up on? Her face reflects the sadness of the lyrics. _What reason do you need to die, die!_ She starts. “Why do they sing about dying?”

“People sing about everything,” he replies frankly. “Wait until you hear Queen.”

“ _The_ Queen?”

“Not the old lady,” he laughs. “The band. They’re incredible.”

The Boomtown Rats shout into the mic, _I just realized today is the best day of my life!_

* * *

Will accompanies El to physical therapy. The rehabilitation room is intimidating, large and lined with gym equipment both old and new, and gym mats near the center, where there’s a low set of parallel bars. There’s another patient there, a limping elderly man. His therapist has him using strength machines. El’s therapist has her crutch around the room. By the second lap she’s breathing like she ran a race, red in the face and glistening. After several laps, swinging through her crutches with increasing confidence, the therapist leads her through weight and resistance exercises.

Throughout the hour Will practices intuiting her mood: determination, frustration, shame. At the end of the session she is coached through a few “safety falls”, which scare him. He stands awkwardly nearby, again helping by being present. Finally El gets to lay on one of the mats and use a towel to stretch and strengthen her limbs how they’ve been teaching her. The therapist updates them on El’s fast progress, and advises she do as many of these exercises as often as she can, downstairs in her room.

Black Sabbath comes on when they get back upstairs. Their heavy music stuns El and inspires Will. From his backpack he fishes out paper and crayons, and sets them up on a table alongside the snacks. El wheels over and admires his art. It flows easily with the right music. He shows her a few tricks on paper and shares his food. Chips and candy, mostly. She refuses to touch the M&Ms.

Time passes this way, drawing and bopping in their seats. Slowly Will opens up enough to sing in front of El. She’s impressed, until a sad song blindsides her. She drops her green crayon and loses herself in the TV screen. _Oh can’t you see?_ Sting and Phil Collins sing, _You belong to me. How my poor heart aches, with every step you take!_

“Mike.”

He remembers. They played this last year at the Snow Ball. Mike’s knitted vest, his blazer, and his reaction to El, so pretty in her plain dress and purple eyeshadow. Minutes prior Will had looked to Mike for permission to dance with the one person who asked, but Mike didn’t ask permission from him to dance with _her_. They spent the rest of the dance locked together, and Will sat on the sidelines dejected.

“Will. Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“You say Mike isn’t mad. Why hasn’t he come?”

“Honestly, El? I have no idea.”

She makes a strained expression. “Because I’m crippled.”

Where did she even hear that word?

“You’re not crippled, El, you--” 

“Please, Will. No lies.”

He sighs. Last year Jonathan agreed that Will is a freak and it was relieving. After one week in the hospital, El’s probably heard every possible variation of _it’s okay_ and _you’re still beautiful_. One million words adding up to a paradox-- their words against the body she’s experiencing. It’s a gut sensation, Will knows, an intuitive understanding of self. El doesn’t need to be comforted. She needs to be _heard_.

“Fine. You’re a cripple,” he states. “A freak.” She looks betrayed until he adds, “Like me. I’m a freak. They call me names at school, did Mike ever tell you that? Zombie Boy, fairy, faggot. Even--”

“ _Faggot_?”

He pauses. Damnit, said too much. “You know, a bad way of calling a person gay.”

She squints. “ _Gay_.”

“When a boy loves a boy, or a girl loves a girl?”

“Like, _in_ love?”

“Yeah.”

“You… love boys?”

“I love plenty of people,” he says truthfully, without fully revealing his cards. “My family, my friends. But I’ve never-- I haven’t fallen in love yet.”

She nods understandingly. “I thought Mike and I were in love. Like on TV.”

Insatiable curiosity tickles him into asking, **“** Has he said it to you?”

She shakes her head. “I heard him,” she says, “at the cabin.”

“You heard us?”

Her face folds and she speaks to her lap, tears falling. “He said he can’t lose me. Where is he?”

He calculates. “Is this the longest you’ve been apart since coming back?”

She sniffles, brings her gaze level to his. “He gave up on me.”

Will knows how it feels.

* * *

Soggy dinner and another backpack snack lifted her spirits after Sting, so when Queen comes on around seven, they’re bubbling with excitement, the vigil and Mass entirely forgotten. He’s praying they play his favorite songs, and she’s asking who’s who as the band takes the stage. “So many teeth!” she comments on Freddie. “He looks fun.”

“He is fun. Oh, my God here they go!” Will grabs the arm of her wheelchair as Freddie plays a teasing riff. He gasps. “They’re playing it!”

“Playing what?”

“Bohemian Rhapsody!”

The band forgoes the album intro, moving directly into the first verse with overwhelming gusto. Mesmerized, El studies Freddie’s playful fingers punching keys. Her lips part and head tilts slightly, touched.

_Mama, just killed a man. Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he’s dead._

In this moment Will understands what Mike sees: El is beautiful in her easy wonder. Yet below her face is the reminder of why she is blamelessly new. Raised by men in a captive space, pressured until she, a diamond then, cut loose and spun into their world. Robin’s loose shorts reveal an incomplete body, one lashed by trauma. Will is honored El feels safe to show her legs around him, and admires their four knees side by side, still bruised from scrabbling and slamming against tile and wood last week.

_If I’m not back again this time tomorrow, carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters._

“Mama?”

What?

It only takes one second for El to become inconsolable. Sobs shake away her happiness as she crosses her arms over her chest in a sad attempt to hug herself. “Mama, no!”

_I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all…_

Comforting El was Mike’s self-appointed job. He isn’t here, and he isn’t her brother. Will is, and he isn’t going to break promises. He gets up and spins his seat all the way around, pushes it close so both sides of their chairs touch, facing opposite directions. Then he leans over and envelopes her.

July fourth he held her hand and felt her fear, pinprick palpitations he challenged with powerful, hopeful thoughts. Tonight he feels her completely, shaking shoulders and pointy chin, expanding ribs and aching breaths. “Hop,” she whimpers. “They’re gone.”

She smells bad, like sweat and pee, but he doesn’t care. He presses his head against hers and closes his eyes. A woman being electrocuted to the peppy backbeat of “Radio Gaga”. A thick metal door creaking open and El being thrown into a box, leaping up and snapping the neck of the man who intends to lock her in darkness. An older man, petting her face, carrying her away. Chief Hopper, the woods, snow.

A monster marching.

The memories are mostly hers, but the Mind Flayer is _theirs_. Frightening convergence. Instead of opening his eyes, he adjusts his grip and holds her tighter. She clings harder.

Queen is walking off stage when they peel apart. Her eyes are puffy, smooth skin blotchy and red. She smiles and takes his hands. Free from distractions-- adults hovering around the edges, Mike mincing his words-- Will is sure he’s met her before. Live Aid is tinder sparking the meeting between two seasoned magicians, veteran alchemists who missed each other for centuries. Here, they have surpassed _human,_ transcended adolescence, which should knight their biggest problem being enamored of same boy. They are souls bound by a haunting force that shifts in and out of dreams, lingers inside their blood. Creatures that touched in a dimension not their own. Unless-- maybe it is theirs.

There are years of wasted time to cover. Sadly, El only has so many words.

* * *

Mom walks in just as Madonna comes onstage. She's carrying a sleeping bag and toothbrush for Will, who happily accepted El's invite to sleepover. They beg her to let them watch Live Aid a little while longer, but she reminds them she'll be back early tomorrow morning. El's coming home for breakfast. The Byers are getting ready for the Mass together.

As Will rolls El to the elevator, he notices how exhausted his mother is, her black cardigan askew and hair tousled like it got caught on other women's earrings. Should he have gone to the vigil to support her instead? No, today was worth whatever he missed. Learning about El has opened him fully to the experience of being her brother. He’s curious about Robin’s prediction. Maybe they _are_ going to stick together.

Downstairs, Will sets up his sleeping bag as Mom helps El go to the bathroom and change, but they brush their teeth together at the sink, like Jonathan and Will used to when they were small. At one point he’s sure he locks eyes with El in the mirror, except the reflection is his own. If Mom weren’t in the doorway listing off breakfast foods, it would disorient him. Thankfully he stays present. He’s not ready for El to see him acting weird like _that._

Mom kisses them goodnight and leaves, and Will is more comfortable alone with El than he ever expected to be. Today’s experiences replaced the internal dialogue pestering him: what did _I love you_ mean between he and Mike, when is Jonathan’s anger going to break, how is Mom going to handle life after crisis? All that matters tonight is being El’s brother until they fall asleep.


	21. Lucas

Change happens when you’re fourteen. It happens over the summer. These kids you’ve known your whole life, they go on vacation, get haircuts, grow boobs and body hair, change their brand and listen to new music. They come back to school with deeper voices and muscle and socialize with different people. It happens, he gets that, but fears the change and resents his father for pushing him. Tonight at dinner Lucas got a lecture. _Come September, I want to see you making new friends. Those boys keep finding trouble, and you don’t need trouble._ College, work, responsibility. Things Lucas has to prepare for.

Now, sitting in the back of the car on the way to the vigil, he wonders if it's true. But what if it happens again? What if it’s not over, and the day they need him he isn’t there because he listened to his dad?

Then again, what if it _is_ over? Come September, Lucas will have the opportunity to change brands. Last year he was interested in joining track and denied himself, reasoning the party needed to stick together, which they did, until they fell apart. Mike spent all his free time with El, Dustin tucked away in his inventions, and Will was quiet. Maybe new friends isn’t a bad idea. Lucas can live a life where no one knows what he survived, and no one has to. He can live a life where it never happened.

They pull into the sprawling parking lot, which is filled like Christmas is next week. His parents lost people, too, and agreed to attend the vigil and public Mass. As their father parks, he reminds Lucas and Erica they're still grounded. If they leave the premises, worse punishment awaits. The past week they’ve checked off chore after chore, hoping each day to earn their way back to summer freedom, yet never making it past the front yard. Part of Lucas thinks he’ll be grounded forever.

He swings his legs out of the car and touches down. His sneakers on pavement, a vast field of tar leading to the mall. As they draw closer it resembles a castle, the glowing candles reflecting off picture frames giving the impression of a molten moat protecting a forbidden palace.

Erica comes into step beside him, pacing herself. She’s chomping at the bit to see Dustin, Robin, and Steve. It’s obvious in spite of her acting chill. When the Sinclairs finally enter the mingling mourners, she skips off to a bench where Dustin-- recognizable by his hair-- sits with the teens. Surreal to watch Erica, through the somber shifting people, hug Steve Harrington and Robin, who he doesn’t know. Slowly Lucas follows, both regretful he came and thankful to once again be near people who understand.

After a blur of handshakes and half-hugs, Dustin sits Lucas down on the bench beside him and starts talking. About _everything_. It’s a lot to take in-- Jonathan’s bad mood, Mike passing out and the subsequent drama, El moving into the Byers’, and sibling bonding time at Live Aid. Lucas is jealous El and Will get to spend tonight having fun.

 _Family_ , his father said. _Family is what matters most._ Ten years from now those friends who put him in danger won’t matter nearly as much as his family and career. Lucas heard this so many times this past week he’s starting to believe it.

It isn’t fair. Erica got a nightlight for her nightmares, and Lucas got told men don’t need lights to sleep. He also got lectured about the importance of family. Unfair! He knows more about family than his father! The absolute terror of pulling a best friend to safety, the purpose of hypervigilance and the fullness of finding out your best friend had your back when you thought you were down and out.

Extended family. That’s what the party is, and the party has its own parents. Or, had. Mrs. Byers and Chief Hopper. They appeared in the mall at the exact right moment, before Lucas’s brain burst with the panic of needing a plan and not having one. There was no punishment, no anger, just patience and soft words. Mrs. Byers had hugged him while Mike helped El sit down by the chief. Warmer than his mother’s hugs. Could he be imagining it?

Erica trots off with her mall-rat friends to sit along a different stretch of wall, contrastively happy in the midst of sadness, pulling Lucas back to the present. Their parents will be mad if he loses her, but she shouldn’t be his responsibility. She’s clearly marching to the beat of her own annoying drum.

Robin pulls Steve away to introduce him to her band geeks, leaving Dustin and Lucas alone on the bench. He’s prattling on again when a fellow almost-ninth grade girl walks over, trailed by a few others he recognizes from the popular table at lunch.

The leader clears her throat demurely. “You’re two of the survivors, right?” Her eyes are dark brown with thick lashes and ridiculous green eyeshadow. Is this a vigil or a fashion show? These girls are dressed like firecrackers while he’s wearing jeans and a plain long-sleeve shirt. No war paint, no bandana, even though he feels naked near the mall without it. He swears he saw goo and blood on the pavement between here and the car.

“Indeed we are,” Dustin boasts. “Made it out unscathed. Sad for the others, but,” he smirks, points both thumbs at his chest, “I’ve got a life to live.”

The girls exchange strange glances. One checks Lucas out and asks, “What was it like? You know, like _really_?”

He doesn’t trust himself to answer without spilling the truth, since it’s an ESPN play by play in his head all week. He shrugs, unnerved by the presence of so many peers after a week alone. 

“Exactly what Dr. Owens said yesterday,” Dustin informs. “We found flyers about a fireworks show and were let into the mall for a pre-display party. Then…” He crudely mimes a rocket flying up, down, and exploding. _Boosh!_

“Oh, wow,” the first girl marvels. Another asks, “How did you make it out alive? Why isn’t the whole place torn down?”

Since when are popular girls smart? Is this what high school will be like? Special attention for the party that survived the “explosion”? An easy way to make new friends, except Lucas still owes loyalty to those he’s been with since elementary school. How could he stray?

He lets Dustin, who’s standing now, dominate the conversation and sits back, spaced out. Apparently the Wheelers’ aren’t coming. Lucas wishes Mike were here because they’re on the same wavelength most of the time, but Dustin’s stories make him nervous. Tomorrow at the vigil-- what condition will Mike be in? Is he going to come? What will he do if he sees El?

He shakes his head to throw away the bad thoughts and someone calls his name, piercing in all this hush. He looks up and sees Max moving toward him, red hair falling around her face and shoulders. There’s an expression he can’t read, an opposite to her assertiveness. He stands up, called to attention, her body language begging him to catch her as she slams into him. Instead she lets out a little sigh and stops abruptly in front of him, paying Dustin and the girls no mind. 

“Are you okay?”

“No.” He wants to brush her hair back so he can see her face better in the neon lights. Her freckles stand out in the contrastive light. “I’m leaving.”

His stomach drops. “What? Where are you going?”

“California.” She pushes out the words. “Neil is having a service for Billy, out there. They’ve already, you know,” a nervous laugh, “sealed and shipped him.” She’s toying with a necklace he’s never seen here wear before; Billy’s, he realizes. He remembers it swinging like a pendulum as he bashed Steve’s face in last fall. Lucas is glad the asshole is dead. He's curious why she's wearing the pendant, since he thought she'd be relieved Billy was gone, too.

“I wish you could stay here,” he says. Then a scary possibility occurs; Hargrove unpredictability, Max’s mother's known washyness. “You _are_ coming back, right? This isn’t, like, the last time I’m ever gonna see you?”

“Neil’s the one with money, and he’s been blowing it in bars,” she says hopelessly. She looks around, then at back at him. Her eyes shimmer with neon tears, the colorful overhead lights reflecting off of them like a cat's in the dark. “I need to find Robin, tell her to explain to El.”

He nods. He wants to hug her, but: “Is he here?”

“No. My mom is, she’s waiting in the car. She said we were going out to the store. I mean, we _are,_ but I needed to say goodbye. If he finds out we came here…” She shrugs like _who knows?_

Lucas nods. “Thanks for taking the risk. I’m glad I got to see you.”

She takes his hand and gives it a quick squeeze. “I’ll call if I can, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Stay safe.”

“You, too.”

She turns and winds through strands of people to find Robin. Lucas scans the crowd for signs of Niel, although he isn’t even sure how he looks. Like Billy, probably. He spots Mrs. Byers talking to his parents-- _oh, no!_ \-- and Jonathan, slinking into the shadows.

* * *

In the dream he has a daughter, but the baby is actually a bean in the pinkish palm of his hand. And he knows he has to save it, except he keeps getting lost in the maze of Starcourt. Max is meeting him at the fountain at eight. What floor is he on? Where’s the escalator?

He runs through a clothing store that’s got tables and hot dogs. People pay him no mind. _Where is the fountain,_ he calls out, _what time is it?_ They’re unhearing, unknowing. Something bad is coming, he has to save the baby, and no one is paying attention.

The baby squirms in his hand, squishy like a tadpole snatched from the shore of a pond. He is at once revolted and compelled. This baby is important, it has powers, it must be protected.

The baby is El.

 _Handoff the baby to Max, she’ll know what to do next._ She’ll know where the others are. That’s all he can think as he rushes to third floor railing. Staring down at the atrium floor he sees a sculpture of horses; real breathing horses, bucking and rearing. Laughing patrons don’t care about their feet being stomped on. Lucas searches for long red hair and sees something. Maybe he can jump. What if he drops the baby?

Downstairs he spills through a wall of shoppers and into the atrium, head whipping left and right to find Max. He sees her, catches her eye and sprints. Just then there is a horrible crash, and the bean slips between his fingers and through a metal grate in the floor.

Max screams. It’s the rush of guilt that wakes him.

* * *

He’s not the biggest fan of darkness anymore, but he sneaks out and rides to Max’s, flashlight taped to his bike and heart pounding. You never know when’s the last time. Last time for Nancy, arguing with Mike about El. Last time for Hopper, telling El she needs to be safe, assuring her that her batteries will recharge. According to Dustin they haven’t.

He tiptoes to her ground floor bedroom window and sees the bedside lamp is still on. Max isn't in bed. Gently he drums his fingers on the glass, scaring the shit out of her. She jumps up from the floor, dropping a shirt she was folding into her bag.

She lifts the window and hisses, “Go home! You’ll get in trouble. You’ll get _me_ in trouble.”

“I had a bad dream, and I needed to see if you were okay.” God, how lame.

“I’m okay, see?” She gestures at herself, unhinged and sleep deprived. Her hair is tied in a low ponytail and he sees a mark on her cheek.

“Wait-- is that a bruise?”

“Jesus, Lucas, leave!”

“I’m coming in.” He grabs hold of the windowsill, half-expecting her to slam the window down on his head, and swings himself to the other side. Aside from Erica, he’s never been in a girl’s room. It’s simpler than he imagined. Skating posters, plain furniture, a bed big enough for two so she can have sleepovers. When was the last time she slept? He looks her over. Baggy pajamas, messy hair, and a purple-red bruise. He frowns. “Neil hit you, didn’t he?”

She slaps her hand over his mouth, voice barely audible. “If you want to stay even _one_ more second you need to _zip it_! Understand?”

He nods. She lets go and whispers, “Yeah, okay? It happened. He was drunk. We came home tonight and he was talking about suing Hawkins, he wants to use the settlement money to move back to California.” His eyes widen. “I know, but,” she says, “I have no control.”

What do you say to a girl who’s sad? A girl who never needs you to say much at all, and when she does she drops big hints?

“Can I, uh, can I hug you?”

She cocks her head like _are you serious?_ and dives into him, warm and soft, smelling of candy and smoke. Twilight yanks away his inhibitions like a rug beneath his feet, and after hearing about Mike and El, seeing Jonathan lose Nancy, and hurting Max in his dream, he’s compelled to whisper: “I love you.” Then, to counteract the awkwardness he adds, “I’m really, really glad it wasn’t you.”

Max pulls away and studies his face like he’s a stranger. He should have known this was a mistake. She bursts into tears.


	22. Jonathan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “Everybody Wants to Rule the World”, Tears for Fears, 1985  
> [Spotify link in work summary]

An hour after arriving at Starcourt he hears some classmates chatting about a party in hushed tones. He tells Mom he’s going, lying and claiming a few friends invited him. Clearly she’s concerned, but can’t stop him. He needs this. She asks the requisite questions-- how is he getting there and back?-- and reminds him not to get in the car with anyone who’s been drinking. He’s about to spin another lie, that he'll have a friend drive him home even though he'll just walk, when Steve and Robin traipse over to say goodbye. They’re conveniently heading to the party, too. Steve offers to bring Jonathan, looking shaken and desperate for a guy on his side, a pal who gets it. Who _knew her_. Jonathan follows them silently to the BMW but says nothing the entire ride there.

* * *

Teens of Hawkins coming together for their own secret society, honoring the dead in one of the empty homes. Partying in a museum. Heather’s house. Popular girl, pretty. Lifeguarding all summer even though she didn’t need the money, because it’d look good when she applied to college. Her father, he had a slick position at the Hawkins Post, mother was as much of a socialite as a woman can be in a town like this. Big house, savings account. Plans to send their daughter to a good college, hopes to see her married and be gifted beautiful, healthy grandchildren. Maybe pass the house down to her someday.

Their home is rich colors and polished wood. Meticulously maintained oriental rugs, imported from Italy and tonight trampled on by the grieving soles of drunken teens. Shelves by a fireplace someone just pissed in are lined with collectibles from other countries. Russian nesting dolls, Foo Dogs, a menagerie of glass. Jonathan watches a whirling dervish girl catch herself on the shelves, bringing them down in a spray of porcelain and crystal. She’s bleeding but gets up and continues to dance, the music too slow for her erraticism. This was her best friend’s house, you know?

_Nothing ever lasts forever… Everybody wants to rule the world._

One bad week. One bad day and a whole family, _snap._ Dead. A home revered now an inviting circus ring, and Jonathan? He has come to watch.

* * *

Master bedroom, sparkling bathroom attached, untouched by greedy hands grasping for control. A watch they could sell to compensate for the lost salary of a dead parent. A totem that could replace whatever brother, sister, uncle, best friend they so suddenly lost.

Years ago Jonathan and Will made a pact. No alcohol would touch their lips. No cigarettes, weed, cocaine-- nothing like their father. They weren’t going to be him, and they weren’t going to wake the demons he put inside them.

How foolish. Two boys without a lick of clairvoyance. Look at them now, look at what happened! Will, he knows too much, has vacationed in another universe and Jonathan, who has met calamity with empathy every time, was rewarded by a cruel God. What’s the point of being good-- of working for _anything--_ if it can be smashed? His future was the lovely brain of a child, his hard work the protective skull. Life is the cement the child’s head was dashed upon, until the shrieking child stopped struggling because his brains were smeared against the wall, a fruit cup flung by an infant at mealtime. Life is an infant, and God is the parent who abandons their offspring before teaching it to clean up its own mess.

Jonathan can’t hear the medicine cabinet creak open over the music. Dozens of bottles. Could they have what he craves? Calm soft forgetfulness, heightened appreciation of music, the touch of unkempt bedsheets, pounding hot water on his sore back. He slides bottles around and all the irrelevant ones drop into the sink like forgotten adult rattles. Finally he finds them-- _Valium,_ only five left, and _Vicodin_. Twenty, maybe thirty. Lifesavers.

He dumps everything into one bottle, double checks the cabinets and drawers of the vanity for anything else of value, and slips out of the master bedroom. Down the dark hallway, over the thump of Chaka Khan, he hears a familiar whining voice: _I knew this was a bad idea!_ It’s Steve, in the bathroom adjacent to the second floor landing. Jonathan edges closer and dares to peer into the bright, shiny space. Rapid breathing, head between his knees and fingers gripping locks of hair, Robin, the new girlfriend, talking over him so confidently rational. _You’re fine, listen to me, Steve? You’re fine, just breathe, you’re_

What a joke. None of them are fine.

Unseen, Jonathan steals downstairs and out the front door.


	23. Eleven

Innocence is not guaranteed. Guilty, guilty, STAINED. The men watch her toddle onstage, a sick marionette with twisted limbs, only she can’t perform because something’s broken. She looks down, repulsed by this body of hers, illuminated in the spotlight and clothed like Madonna, leaving her shoulders, arms, throat, chest bare. Her left leg is a grotesque prop, cracked in several places, so her foot faces backwards. Her kneecap is where the shin should be. Crumbled bones sag in her flesh like stones in a sock. She panics, breathes too sharp and fast into the mic taped to her cheek.

Sitting in the front row is Papa. He says pleasantly, “Never mind your leg, Eleven. Go on. Show them what you’re made of.” His formal posture and serene face suggest she is made of something other than flesh-- something superior, inhuman. There’s nothing to worry about. She can do this.

But she loses him in the disorienting glare of stage lights and misremembers her teetering act. Disappointing, stop! An eruption of applause signals the end and she drags the broken leg to the stage wings like a lame dog on a leash, hiding herself in the curtains and gimping further, suddenly drenched in emergency red light. Racks of instruments obstruct her path, musicians weaving and twirling about, waving at her, complimenting her. Some are masked and others made up, eyeshadow so heavy they seem gouged and gaping, maws of blindness, blind beauties dancing for those they cannot see. Who is watching?

Here, is bad. Here, is dangerous. Must get out! Pushing on, she stumbles and falls, finally crawling to the exit on hands and knees. In the dream she can’t feel the hot pain in her leg. Above her a metal push bar cuts the door in half; she needs to pick herself up enough to put weight against the handle, shove the heavy thing open. The sliver of light around the doorframe is hopeful, but a blast of music and cheering behind her revs up panic. She fumbles with sweaty palms until thank God, the door opens and she tumbles forward onto a tiled floor in a long white hallway.

Here the leg functions. She stands and notices something down the hall. Pale belly up, a flopping fish out of water, slapping the marble. When she draws closer it is not a fish. Some boy’s body, swollen and waterlogged, grey eyes bulging and cloudy, ribcage exposed where fish chewed away at the flesh, and behind the bones a wet mess of organs, like spooning into a fresh chicken pot pie. El cringes, draws back, afraid the sickness of it will permeate her by proximity.

“What have you done?” A deep voice says behind her. El turns to see Billy, whose blue eyes well with tears of disbelief, looking at the childhood body of himself. He looks at her and whispers, “You killed me?”

El steps back, terribly confused and unable to refute. _Yes, I killed you._ How? And when? She remembers Billy telling her the world was built in her honor, the poetic rain of death designed to punish her for ever loving-- remind her it can never be real.

“ _Monster_!”

“Leave,” Will commands. He arrives beside El by magic and casts a fierce and warning glare on Billy’s live form.

“She,” he emphasizes disgustedly, pointing, “needs to be put to rest, put down like the rabid animal she is.”

“This isn’t her fault,” Will declares. Then, “I’m sorry, Billy, but you’re dead.”

* * *

El wakes with a gasp.

The hospital room is dark aside from a pie slice of light falling through the half open door to the hallway. She sits up and leans over the bed to call Will, who is already standing up, then leaning on the edge of her bed. “El, I’m right here,” he takes her hands. Strong, confident. “I’m right here.”

“No,” she corrects. “You were _there_ , in my dream.” Her hands feel right in his, a fingertip palpitation as if her hand can feel his breathing. Slow and steady, as if he did not just come from a nameless hallway where the body of a gnawed child washed up.

On several occasions El told Mike and Hop about her dreams— times they were playing in her stories. Unlike them, Will doesn’t ask _what was I doing,_ or comment on how funny it is that he appeared in her dream. He just looks at her evenly and says, “I know.”

* * *

Breakfast is like on TV. A big round table (she’s sat here before), three kids and a mom. Big plates of eggs, toast, bacon, and Eggos that she cries about. Guilt rushes her, she’s horrible for losing her appetite in this new place, horrible for grieving, and having put everyone in danger, _again._

Across the table Jonathan sits stiffly avoiding her eye, taking small forkfuls and sips of black coffee which cannot mask the stale smell of beer. She’ll recognize it anywhere now. It’s how Hop smelled in the morning.

Could she have saved him?

* * *

Joyce sits behind her on the bed, combing her clean hair gently. The prongs tickle her scalp, a welcome sensation. She was over a week without a shower.

Will she ever shower again? Without her left foot to stand on, Joyce had to draw a bath. Perfectly hot and silly with bubbles, it was inviting. A stack of worn towels sat on the closed toilet lid. Joyce offered her help undressing her stump and getting into the tub, but she refused, still weighted by the shame breakfast had wrapped around her. Yet the moment she sank into bubbles and the water sloshed there was a loss of balance. Unable to brace herself with two feet, El's ever-tender stump bumped the porcelain and she yelped. Joyce's apologetic help was accepted reluctantly and, though some part of having her hair washed and her back scrubbed by a mom felt natural, it also saddened her. She’s not a little girl anymore. She missed the rubber ducky window. Rather, it had never opened.

Among questions of how she’d like to wear her hair El worries, “He won’t like me. I’m not pretty.”

“Who won’t like you? Mike?” She nods, and Joyce shimmies off the bed and sits in her wheelchair, so they’re eye to eye. “Pretty isn’t important. What’s important is that you feel comfortable, and safe.” 

“I don’t understand,” she says, plucking at her blue bracelet. As the Mass draws closer, reuniting with Mike is all she can think of. “He needs me, I save him. I need him… he doesn’t come.”

Joyce sighs. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

“A lot.” She tucks her damp hair behind her ears. It’s already beginning to form waves, which she sometimes likes and other times despises. Eleven years without hair, without a mirror, then suddenly face to face with the intensely hollowed eyed alien. _Me?_ Figuring out who she is by mimicking TV and mirroring other girls made sense, but it couldn’t keep Mike betrothen to her and it hasn’t made her whole.

Joyce leans forward and speaks lightly. “Why’d you break up with him, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She explains in a quarter cup of words what Max pointed out, how he lied about Nana and couldn’t apologize. Couldn’t say I love you. And how, to her confusion, he continued to catch her every time she collapsed and called his name.

Joyce taps the smooth side of the comb on El’s right knee. “I don’t think you need Mike as much as you feel like you do.”

An adult echoing Max, they must be onto something! She lowers her brow. “Why?”

“Well, I was there when you came out of surgery. You probably won’t remember, cause you were only awake a minute before you went right back to sleep, but you didn’t call for Mike. You called for Hop.”

This knocks the wind out of her.

“I think,” Joyce softly asserts, “you need a parent right now, way more than you need a boyfriend.”

* * *

She’s not allowed to sit in the pew with the others. Instead she’s in her wheelchair in the outer aisle. She’s self conscious because everyone’s staring at her, although Will is directly beside her at the end of the pew, and it makes her a little less alone.

The survivors of the Starcourt bombing have privileged seating in the two front rows. Church is old. So much wood, it creaks, the floor is stone, big slabs, and the radiators lining the bottom of the walls seem like they could never heat this vast space. A loud hoot startles her— music— like a giant blowing on the mouth of a bottle. One long note, then another. She swivels around, searching for the noise source, and her eyes land on Mike, sitting with his family three rows back, towards the wide inner aisle, where figures in capes waltz to the stage. She gasps and quickly turns back around. Will, and Dustin on the other side of him, look at her. _You okay_? She nods. _She_ is okay, but Mike is not. His lips which are her favorite part, are pale, illustrious. He’s slumped forward like his bones are too tired to hold his shape, bangs hiding his eyes. She’s never seen him in a suit-- only the outfit from the Snow Ball, where he was handsome and solid-- and his white skin seems vampirish against the black. His tie is too old for a freckled thirteen year old boy, making the freckles seem like age spots.

The priest speaks in monotone echoes. She’s unable to discern words other than _life_ and _tragedy_ , and so sits confused as a ritual unfolds. An ornate metal cage gently rocked in each direction, a pendulum, rolling smoke into corners where shadow faced idols and mourning women in veils watch over the living in triumphant anguish. It smells like soft wood and unnamable flowers, a musk that could warm winter but, in Hawkins summer, thickens the air uncomfortably. The high, arched ceiling bearing mystery letters she can’t make out steals her breath. After a steadying inhale she sneaks another look back at Mike, head still down. Has he seen her?

The congregation stands when asked-- she can’t. They sit, echo unfamiliar words to the priest in dark, dissonant pitches, a vibrating gong fit to wake her, but this is no dream. Beside her Will is silent, letting her know she isn’t alone in not knowing, not feeling welcome here. Like El and Hop, the Byers don’t go to church on Sundays. On the ride here she asked, sitting in the passenger’s seat Will helped her into, why do people go to church and what happens when you pray? TV has been her classroom until now, painting church in brushstrokes of miracles and pastoral light. Joyce explained to her about a soul-saving entity called God, who is confusingly also “Lord”, whose son (human somehow) Jesus Christ died on the cross so the rest of them could live. _Sacrifice_ , Joyce said. El understood, but if sacrifice is what’s needed to make miracles, why isn’t she as important as Him? _Did Jesus have powers_ , she had asked, _like me?_ Sort of, Will explained. He was raised-- _resurrected--_ after three days dead in a cave to raise faith. _Why_ ? Will couldn’t say, and Joyce gave a shrug. Maybe if Jonathan were there he’d know, but he stayed home with a book and a closed bedroom door. Looking out the window, El had been surprised to hear Joyce remark, _I don’t believe in God._

The service seems endless. Rodic repetition, cold building even under summer sun. She shivers. _The Lord is my Shepherd, there is nothing I shall want._ Suddenly a giant pinches her stump and twists it, heavy thumb and forefinger squeezing the plasma and lifeblood from her limb like a zit. She cries out and Will immediately rises to help, to _take her outside_ , as Joyce suggests in a quick whisper.

Stained glass colors, rich ocean blue and harvest orange, pass across her black pleated lap as Will pushes her wheelchair down the outside aisle, the priest drones on, a song with words strung together indecipherably: _foreverandever._

* * *

Outside, a ways down the sidewalk, they stop at a bench by the cemetery fence. Will angles her chair so they can see each other better, her back to the church and him perched at the end of the bench prepared to jump up again. By now the phantom pain has passed, but El can’t catch her breath. She wishes she were at the Byers, where she could rip this itchy dress off and hide under the covers she has yet to sleep in. She wishes she could leap out of this chair and sprint down the sidewalk, frothing at the mouth, snapping like a rabid beast. Her body, not her mind, is in control here. She shuts her eyes tight against the storm, trapping the scream building inside. She sets her jaw and clenches her fists, sweating because of the pain, breathing heavy, miserably hot and--

“Hey, Will. Is El okay?”

Her eyes snap open. Head splitting afternoon sun, birds overjoyed and lying about the state of things, squirrels tittering over oak bits and scrabbling on bark, quipping as they race around thick trunks; dozens of cars lining the street-- a couple clicking in heels, late late late, as bees buzz in the tiny wildflowers at the fence between them and the graves of those they’ve never seen before; exhaust smell and moss, a salad tossed with too many herbs-- Hopper’s mistake-- and Mike. Mike, who chooses _now_ to make first contact.

“How about you ask her,” Will says assertively. It’s more of an insult than a question. Mike has the nerve to seek El, then avoid directly addressing her?

“Uh, yeah. Right.” Timidly he taps her on the shoulder, remiss of the reassuring touch she loved so much. “Hey,” he says. “Can I talk to you?”

Does she want to turn around and see him? Given Will’s expression as he looks over her shoulder at Mike it’s clear something is wrong. Will’s eyes flick to her and she strains to hear his thoughts. Unfortunately telepathy doesn’t belong to her. If she’s curious, she has to look for herself. Laboriously she grips the chair and turns, having only just recovered from the stress of phantom pain. Will sits to her left and Mike stands at her right, loosely balanced on the heels of his pointy polished shoes. She draws her gaze up his slight and suited frame, allowing her face to be slack. _What do you want?_

“Can I talk to you,” he repeats, his lips forming a doubtful line, “alone?”

She and Will exchange a glance. He’s hesitant-- to leave her alone with Mike? Why? Is there something he hasn’t told her? An issue between them, or a conversation they had about her when she wasn’t present? It doesn’t matter. Last night Will mysteriously entered her dream and saved her, woke her up before things got bad. She is going to trust him, always, with love and devotion, a pact made without words; they moved in sync, her reaching out at the same time as he carefully climbed onto the bed, stretching out on his back as she rolled to her side, draping one arm across his stomach and her left leg over his. There was no reason to fear how the absence of her shin, foot, and toes felt to Will. Intuitively she knew he wasn’t revolted. He _isn't_. There is only understanding between them, as if he’s always been there. The long lost siblings slept soundly for the rest of the night.

It is this connection that drives her to say, “No.”

“No?”

“You can talk to _us_.”

Mike shakes his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m serious. Will?”

“If you want me to stay,” he shrugs, “I’ll stay.”

She nods and Mike makes a tiny animal sound, recalling the hurt of her dream, the death toll she’s amounted, the self-hate. All of these things, along with the startling effect of his sad eyes, are hard to handle, much less handle alone.

He moves around to face them. “So, El,” he starts awkwardly, “how are you feeling?”

She shrugs. _How do you think?_

“Yeah,” he nods. “It sucks. This whole thing is totally screwed up.” A tense silence in which he steals a look at Will, who for now has removed himself, a mere sentinel observing. Then he tries again, “I hear you’re staying with the Byers now. That’s pretty cool, right? Are you guys excited?” An attempted smile, the effort of which snaps it immediately into a frown.

“Excited?” El’s brows raise, thinking of the reason for that move. “Hop died, Mike.”

He swallows. “I know. Nancy, too, and Billy.”

She blushes red all the way to her ears and looks at her lap, angry at herself and terribly ashamed for feeling momentarily powerful. Thickly she says the words she owes him: “I’m sorry.”

“What? No, no, no, El, I didn’t mean--!” He gets on one knee. “It wasn’t your fault, okay? Nobody blames you.”

She thinks of her dream. _Billy would_.

“I just mean--” he starts, stops, twitches like he wants to hit himself. El remains silent until it sickens him, until he is an eggshell cracked just so, wherein the yolk retains its form and jiggles precariously. Is he going to burst? No? He’s crying, anyway. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

The woeful apology is humorously overdue and therefore meaningless, but still El is a mirror to the pain of those around her, and her resolve melts away. She cries with him and he, standing one one knee, gathers her hands, oblivious to the long black dress covering the half-limb of nightmares. His eyes, lashes sticky with tears, come close. Their foreheads are pressed together before she’s conscious that Will is a witness, and then she is overwhelmed, remembering their conversation yesterday, and the torment that asking after Mike put her through. He gave up on her-- is that a fair accusation? Such an awful force in their lives she has been, and so sick with guilt over the weight of her destruction. It is her job to care for him, because it is she who made him hurt. Only it isn’t! Joyce, Robin and Max say she needs space and the love of _family_. What is that, really? Any family she’s ever had is gone.

“I missed you,” Mike says softly.

“I missed you, too,” she admits. “You gave up on me.”

The words blow him back so suddenly his tears stop. His grip on her hands loosens. “What?”

“Nine days,” she says, not bothering to wipe her eyes. “No visit. No calls. I asked, and asked, and nobody could tell me where you were.”

“Things are messed up right now, like I said. My mom’s really mad. She’s blaming me for what happened to Nancy because I lied to her about everything, and my Nana’s here, and, well, it’s hard.”

She pushes his hands away. Mrs. Wheeler _should_ be mad! She provides for her son and all he does is scream at her, lie, and do things behind her back. El is mad, too. “You lied to her, and you lied to me!” 

“El--”

“I _needed_ you!” she shouts. “You say you don’t blame me, then where were you?”

In a panic Mike searches Will for direction. He has none to offer, and El worries it was a mistake to hold her new brother here because his heartbeat feels like coffee, all the hummingbird energy leaping from his shoulder to hers. This is upsetting him, she was wrong-- this whole scene is wrong, her life is wrong, and she is stupid. Stupid! Rule breaker! Unsafe! MONSTER!

Finally Mike answers. “I’ve been at home, helping. And thinking!”

“About what?” El sobs. Will takes her hand and she feels his not-okayness, but he stays here for her.

Mike wipes his eyes on the back of his wrists because the sleeves of his suit jacket are too short. “I just-- I didn’t know what to say to you, and it kept getting harder and harder. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure something out.”

“Like I’m a problem?” She leans forward, pained. “A thing?” He shuts his mouth. “Make it up to me now. Tell me what you told them in the cabin.”

“What I told who in the cabin?”

El sighs frustratedly, so Will speaks on her behalf, as if intuiting the words through the conduit of their linked hands. “Your argument with Max, and Nancy. You said--”

“Oh, oh _that_!” Mike laughs nervously, shaking his head. To El, “I told them I can’t lose you.”

She examines him, this disappointment on one bony knee, a dishonored knight to her improper throne. “Lies,” she spits. “You told them you love me.”

His eyes widen. “Well, I do.”

Will makes a noise in the back of his throat. His hand grows hot, the sweat of his palm bleeding into her. He’s watching Mike like a bunny that was just spotted by a fox. What’s going on between them?

Cautiously El lets go of his hand and says to Mike, “If you love me, tell me.” It would make all the difference-- _I love you_ would prove Max and Joyce wrong and earn El’s forgiveness. They can be what they once were, what she’d like to be again. A student held and sheltered.

Mike and El lock eyes. He forgets to breathe, breaking the silence with a disturbingly hard gulp of air. “I’m--” he starts, but can’t finish. An unreadable expression. 

“What, Mike?” She pushes his shoulder. He winces. “What are you?”

He shifts so both knees are on the sidewalk, and sits back on his heels like a folded colt just slipped from the mommy. Shaken by newness, startled by technicolor reality where he has no clue how to play his part. To this new world he says: “I’m a piece of shit.”

“Come on,” Will pleads. “You’re not a piece of shit, just talk to El. Tell her what you told me.”

His reaction is puzzling. He sits up straighter and looks hard at Will, seemingly appalled by the suggestion to tell El he loves her. Betrayed Will would tell on him, even. Why is this so difficult, and how? How could Mike say he loves her when he can’t say it _to_ her? How, how, how!

“I’m not ready.”

“But,” Will argues, “you were ready with--”

Mike cuts him off anxiously, “That’s different!”

“Is it?”

Why are feeling and saying two different things? She isn’t asking Mike to propose to her-- they’ll never be a shining movie couple, she’ll never dance at her wedding on two legs-- but still? Why, after two years, during which she has saved him, saved his friends, blasted herself into another dimension and fought her way back to protect him, leaked blood from her brain in pints for him, can he not tell her?

“Mike?” When he looks up at her it’s apologetically-- he knows what he deserves. “I love you,” she says softly, “but I’m not waiting for you.” Straightening up she yields her remaining power to set a boundary, to demote him. “You aren’t my boyfriend. And you can’t be, ever again.”


	24. Steve

“Rob,” he says exhaustedly, hanging off the frame of her front door. Sleep, right? What is that? All he does is toss, turn, and sweat. He’s like a pig in a pen, wriggling around waiting to be fed and maybe one day brought to slaughter. Slaughter’s looking pretty good at this point. “Please,” he says, “you gotta come with me.”

It's barely seven thirty. She shades her eyes with one hand, still in her pajamas. Her hair is a nest on top of her head. “Come with you _where_?”

Heartbroken, he shakes his head. “You don’t remember what today is?”

Her hand drops away from her face. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Nancy’s services.

“Steve, I can’t. I’m seeing El today.”

“Well, call the hospital and tell her you’ll be an hour late!”

“What? These things never finish in an hour, there’s always a reception after and-- yesterday was hard, I don’t want to go into church again. Bad enough I have to go every Sunday, I feel like I’m going to burst into flames!”

Is that supposed to be a joke? He slumps despairingly. “Please?”

“I can’t,” she shrugs. “Sorry.”

Robin’s mom appears and taps her shoulder, then signs something and waves them in. They follow her to the kitchen, passing through the snuggly living room where the news is on mute. In the kitchen coffee wafting, cereal boxes and a newspaper spread out on the table. Steve flings himself down-- in Robin’s seat, judging by how she promptly shoves him out. She draws a half-sogged bowl of cereal close and spoons disappointedly. Is she always this cranky in the morning, or is she mad at him?

Saturday he'd stupidly thought a night of drinking would help. _Reconnecting with friends_. Robin had come along, like maybe it would actually be fun, but after one beer Steve caught another attack, dizzy and horrified and _when did I become a lightweight!_ She ended up babysitting him. He still feels horrible about it, and about the depressing public Mass yesterday. He can’t blame her for not wanting to go with him to Nancy's. It's just, he's only sat through the funeral of someone he truly loved once before, and it wiped him out for months. He's positive he can't handle this alone.

Robin’s mom pours two steaming mugs of coffee at the counter, then turns to Steve and signs a question he figures means, “You want coffee?”

He shakes his head, “No, no thanks.” She nods and carries the coffees to the table, one for she and Robin. There’s already a little container of milk and sugar jar. Sensical, simple, cozy. Even on a summer morning there’s something wintry about Robin’s house, tucked at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway.

Her mother pats the table to get her attention and signs something. Robin’s hands start going, too, and pretty soon Mrs. Buckley is looking at Steve sadly. “I’m sorry about your friend,” Robin interprets for her. “Can I get you anything? Cereal bowl, tea?”

Looking at Mrs. Buckley, “Unless you can get Robin to come with me to this thing, I’m okay.”

Before she can translate, Robin explodes. “Steve! I didn’t even know Nancy, and their whole family is going to be there. I’m not comfortable! Why are you pushing it?”

“Because I’m fucking afraid, Rob!” he admits loudly. “I’m afraid to go alone, okay?”

Mrs. Buckley waves concernedly at Robin, and their hands start going again like crazy, Robin making all these weird faces as she signs, using her tongue to emphasize stuff he’ll never understand. Probably telling her mom how annoying he is. He knows how he comes off now. Everyone’s more than happy to remind him of it, and helping save Hawkins doesn’t matter. He feels like shit. After a minute his eyes lose focus and he lays his head down on the table. When he looks up again Robin is tapping her thumb repeatedly in the center of her chest with all five fingers spread for _fine_ , one of the few signs he’s been able to retain. She’s not saying _fine_ , though. It’s aggravated. _FIIIIINE!_

Steve blinks at them as their hands fall back to the table. Mrs. Buckley sips her coffee and Robin fingers her mug. “Call El while I go upstairs and change,” she tells him. “You know the number, right?”

“Uh,” he says after a surprised pause, “no, I don’t remember.”

Robin groans and, coffee in one hand, pulls him up from the table and out of the room.

* * *

“Hello?” Her voice is tiny through the line. He has the urge to hug her, or anyone honestly, and wonders where the need to give affection has sprung from.

“Hey, El,” he says. “It’s Steve.”

“Hi.”

“I’m at Robin’s house, and, I hate to do this but, uh, she’s gonna be a little late to hang out with you today.”

Immediate concern. “Is she okay?” He should have phrased it differently.

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s okay. It’s just, Nancy’s memorial thing. I really could use a friend there with me, you know? Nancy…” He isn’t sure what he was going to say.

“I understand,” El says in the silence that follows.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too, but. You’ll be there for him?”

“Who?”

“Mike. Like Robin is there for you.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course. We’ll do whatever we can.” He laughs stiffly, feeling dumb for forgetting Mike. Yesterday mid-Mass he had followed Will and El out of the church. A few minutes later he returned to sit with his parents looking like he’d just been beaten, hiding welts beneath his suit.

That was just the public Mass. God, Robin’s right. This weekend was hard enough, he shouldn’t be asking so much of her. As it was, she and Steve had only attended the Mass to honor El, and Max, who couldn’t be there. Saturday night when she found them at the vigil she was nearly in tears, hugging Robin and explaining how Neil’s plans popped up, they were flying out tomorrow. Steve listened worriedly-- if Billy was any indication, the Hargroves are a bunch of terrorists, and certainly no better in the light of a teenager’s death. Poor Max, having to endure a week of step-family torture!

It’s weird to think Billy’s dead. A person Steve knew but _didn’t_. He wasn’t upset yesterday, only uncomfortable in the front row, celebrated for surviving something he shouldn’t have made out alive from. Something the public will never know is a lie. He could feel the stares: jealous family members wishing their son, daughter, husband, aunt had lived instead, judging the misfit group like _how_? How is a good question. Steve shifted while Dustin sat puffed nearby. Saturday night he was even more annoying, asking to go to the party with them. This unexpected burst of attention has skyrocketed him, and sure, the kid could use a confidence boost, but there has to be a landing, the hard reality of how shitty this is. Yeah, they survived, but look at how many people died! If Dustin's still acting proud today, there's going to be problems.

“Thanks,” El says, bringing Steve back. Robin had dialed for him with an inconvenienced huff.

“No way, El,” he replies. “Thank _you_.” With Max gone, there’s one less friend to visit her, and now he’s dragging Robin away, too. Since he’s got all these memory issues, maybe he could just forget himself, you know, for like a fucking minute? Think of other people first? Long process of redemption, has to start somewhere. "We'll look out for him."

* * *

It’s intrusive to watch other’s pain. He notices the casket with a jolt. A casket? For what? Did they find some part of Nancy’s body inside the monster, or is it an empty box just for show? At least Max’s stepfamily has a box with a body inside. A satisfying assurance most families aren’t lucky enough to have. The Wheeler family fills the front two rows on both sides. The Sinclairs are behind them, Lucas and Erica between their stoic parents. Steve swears he sees Lucas reach up to wipe away tears. Dustin is with his mother on the opposite side of the church. She’s crying, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and Dustin is looking down. Has it finally hit him?

As the priest begins, Steve’s chest tightens. _No no no, not here_! He looks at Robin, who recognizes the forming of panic and takes a deep breath. Right, of course. He takes a deep breath in turn and holds it in, counts-- one, two, three, four-- then exhales, exactly how Max taught him, busying himself by staring at the hymn book in its built-in shelf on the back of the empty pew in front of them. Steve insisted they sit in the back even though Robin said it was weird to _other themselves_ , whatever that meant. A big part of him feels like he’s not allowed to be here. He couldn’t sit any closer.

Focusing on his breathing makes it all fade out, like he’s somewhere else. He doesn’t hear the random relative _click click_ up to the lectern, or the eulogy she delivers about Nancy. In fact, he hears nothing until a blast of maternal misery scatters his peace like roaches from a light. Looking up, heart beat in his throat. Who unleashed that sob?

“ _God, why!_ ” Mrs. Wheeler screams, sinking against the pew, supported by her mom and Mrs. Byers on the other side, rubbing her back. Steve squirms, feeling abstractly like he did this. The party at his house so long ago. Beginning of an unknown end.

Another canon crack of grief, some ungodly sound that might be a pleading _no_! Mike, in the middle of the row by his father, rises to his feet and wavers briefly before struggling around grown adult legs in his rush to the aisle. He looks horrible but walks in an unnaturally controlled manner straight through an open doorway to the right of the altar. Mr. Wheeler passes a disapproving look at the doorway, then returns his attention to the speaker-- not his wailing wife or the son who just tore off.

Steve is too stunned to act. He lays his hand on the pew beside Robin’s, hoping she’ll take his up, but she doesn’t and he starts crying, a different kind of panic. This is in his throat. He hurts for the family he once fantasized about marrying into. He wishes Mrs. Wheeler would stop.

Robin is watching Dustin and Lucas watch Will, who is watching the doorway Mike vanished through. Steve looks, too, blurry through his tears. Will’s face is half-turned: confused deliberation becomes fixed determination, and then he’s on his feet, swiftly tracing Mike’s footsteps.

* * *

As the service closes, Robin gets his attention. He was focusing on his breath again, slowing the heartbeat, stopping the tears. He looks up and sees pallbearers taking their places, preparing for the procession, arranging themselves around the gurney-like bier that elevates the casket. Disaffected men look for a missing member meant to fill the middle space on one side. She whispers, “Mike."

"What?" Then, "Shit, he never came back.” Just a kid, but old enough to be assigned to carry the invisible weight of his dead sister. Years ago Steve was in his place, too young to bear the weight and simply told to step alongside the pallbearers. Meaningless rituals never explained to children, so their practical purpose is missed and it becomes a disturbing introduction to the horror of death, which actually isn’t that scary. It’s just surprising at first, and sad.

“Neither did Will,” Robin adds, swiveling around, searching.

The Wheelers seem largely distracted and unconcerned. A replacement is found and the pallbearers begin the procession, the family lethargically joining behind them. The rows begin to empty from front to back, toward the wide open doors and hot sidewalk and glaring windshields. Steve and Robin will be dead last. Mrs. Wheeler is supported by her mom and Mrs. Byers. As they pass, Mrs. Byers casts an anxious glance at Steve and Robin. _Find the boys_ , she mouths. Why'd Steve tell El they'd look after Mike? Crying tired him out, he just wants to leave. Can’t Dustin or Lucas go get them? No, they’re under parental lock and key, trudging slowly along. Behind the Sinclairs' is Jonathan, arms folded across his chest and head hanging low, like the eulogy was a bludgeon. It's up to he and Robin to help.

"Let's go," she says. "Turn after the last pew. We’ll circle around.” He nods, checking over his shoulder. The doorway to the right of the altar stage is still there, in all its shadowy foreboding. They break away, where there’s enough space to walk side by side. Hastily they skirt the church perimeter, faces lit by stained glass windows like a lazy disco ball. Spontaneous party of two, incoming! Through the doorway they go, plunging into a long narrow hallway lit only by four dim bulbs spread out between the dark, closed and labelless doors. It’s cold here, stony.

He has a bad feeling. “Should we really be doing this, Rob? I mean, what’s even back here?”

She rolls her eyes. “Clearly your family doesn’t go to church, or at least not _this_ church, because…” she scans each door for a label of some kind. Steve spots one but can’t read it in the shadowy dimness. Aren’t churches supposed to be safe and comforting? It feels like they’re walking deeper into a dungeon.

She stops so abruptly he bumps into her. “Aha! See?” He squints. She’s pointing at a cursive iron-looking ornament hanging on the door. _Gentleman._ “If your family went to church,” Robin whispers, “you’d know that back here by the offices are the bathrooms.”

The door is practically screaming don’t go in. Dark stained wood, a little light on the floor underneath. They stand listening, and his heart drops. Something’s happening inside, definitely, but he really doesn’t want to find out what. Maybe Mike’s sick again. Steve will never get over witnessing him faint at the Byers on Wednesday.

Robin is blinking at him. “Hello? Go in there and tell them it’s time to leave.”

“You go in.”

“It’s the guys’ bathroom!”

“What do you care?”

“Seriously?”

“Fine, fine,” he says, reluctantly stepping up and laying one hand on the old knob, sticky with age. “Guys? I’m, uh, I’m comin in.”

Robin is at his shoulder when he swings the door open. Bright fluorescents, blue black and white tiles arranged in hexagons, three stalls, two sinks, a couple stained mirrors damaged by water and time, the scent of piss and potpourri, and-- “Oh my God!”

“Shh!” she yanks Steve back and pushes him wayside, closing the door and shutting them out in the gloom again. “Go tell Mrs. Byers we’ll meet everyone at the Wheeler’s,” she hisses. “Okay?”

“But,” Steve worries loudly, “Mike, he’s--!” Ineffective gesture, no way to describe.

“Shh! Go tell Mrs. Byers,” Robin repeats, looking more annoyed at him than worried about Mike. What’s wrong with her? He was on the floor!

“After you talk to her,” she says, “meet me at the car. Okay?” A silence follows, and she gives Steve a light kick that fluffs her long tulle skirt. Black like her shirt, her eyeliner, her nail polish. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

He throws his hands up. “Alright, alright! But-- are you sure you’re gonna meet me,” he glances at the closed door, “ _with_ them?”

“Yes. With them.”


	25. Mike

Mike flings the door of the first stall open and hits his knees so hard he feels them bruise. His guts quiver and he gags over the toilet, hands trembling against the edge of the bowl like drumming on a school desk. His body works overtime, insides rippling to push up a foamy yellow goo that dribbles from his mouth. There is no relief in emptying himself because there is nothing to expel. He can’t remember the last time he ate, which brings to mind a concerned Will. He isn’t supposed to see Will, or El, they’re both gone to him.

 _I ruined it._ His stomach jerks in at the thought and he heaves, tongue extended like a cat’s. Jonathan was right. Mike can’t put any more stress on Will, or El, or his moaning mother. He is undeserving of them.

But still, he wishes Will were here, and doesn’t. Yesterday he witnessed Mike’s rejection and called him out for saying _I love you_ to him but not the girl he loves. It’s not fair-- Mike _does_ love El! How could he have explained why it's different while they sat like judges appraising his crime, deciding if it warranted abandonment or renewed purpose? They’ve bonded so fast it gave him whiplash, Will positioned where _he_ used to be. He even held her hand, how could he!?

Mike suffers another gross interrupted cough, gagging on the taste of his emptiness. Alone, he labors for air, pale organ notes dancing just outside reality and masking his mother’s howls. He’s shaking. Then, startled by a hand on his shoulder, he swings around and hits his head on the toilet paper rack. Grasping for nonexistent purchase he looks up and discovers Will, who sees him and what he puked up. In a loose gesture meant to hide what he’s done Mike wipes his mouth on the elbow of his sleeve, then realizes he’s made matters worse. His mother will be angry he ruined his suit! Haplessly he blinks up at Will, opening and closing his mouth, begging silently to _please reverse time._ Please, please read his mind and know the things he cannot say. He’s said them, rather, but always at the wrong time in the wrong way. Will shakes his head, devastated, as Mike fights for air and the voice to apologize. He loses.

Wordlessly Will crouches and wraps his arms around Mike, pulling him to a floppy stand. The stall door clangs harshly as they move out to the sinks, where Mike’s body collapses because it’s happening, it’s finally happening _now_ , everything he's tried to hold back. They sink to the floor and Mike breaks open, issuing blaring foghorn sobs like a struck animal screaming to be released from the searing metal grille of a car. Will’s back rests against the wall beneath the paper towels with Mike’s head is on his lap, like that drive home, years ago-- last week? Where are they? _Why_? Will brushes hair out of Mike’s face, the sentiment of which circumferences him so entirely that a sob extends far too long and his body, despite his straining muscles, fails to override the heart and breathe.

He’s never been on the receiving end of affection like this.

Will shifts and Mike fears he’s leaving; revenge for abandoning him and El. He curls up on his side, hipbone digging painfully into the floor. But then a balled up suit coat slips under his head and two knees bump up against his spine. It’s Will, folding over him, wrapping one arm over and hugging him in. Mike’s body finds air, another hoarse sob. He seizes Will’s hand and clutches it to his chest with laced fingers, pulling himself into a tighter ball as though Will’s hand is a coveted piece of magic or the only thing that can keep him from floating away.

Warmth presses into the crook of his neck. Will’s face, his breath and lips, saying something Mike can’t hear over his own noise. Empathetic tears collect on the skin stretched over his thin pulse, where jaw meets neck and El has kissed him. This is different, this matters more, because now _Mike_ is the writhing deer whose guts were blown out, and it hurts to realize the truth of his loss but somehow hurts worse to be held. His shiny shoes knead the tile as his folded legs work out the improcessible reality: his sister is dead.


	26. Robin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “Go Your Own Way”, “Songbird”, Fleetwood Mac 1977  
> [Spotify link in work summary']

A private moment, interrupted. Mike crying in a ball on the floor and Will surrounding him-- hands linked, fingers laced, pressed to Mike’s chest. Somewhere amidst the organ music, heady incense, and tears of strangers, Robin was brought back to earth. Her resentment at being here was knocked away and replaced with sympathy. Standing outside the bathroom door she wonders what’s the best way to barge in and tell a kid his family’s leaving without him.

By knocking, first of all, not barging. She opens the door and peeks in. The boys must have heard the fuss, because Will has lifted away to sit back on his heels and Mike is sitting up beside him, legs criss-cross applesauce and one knee propped against Will’s thigh. Curiously, Mike has pulled Will’s hand behind him, around his side, so Will’s arm hugs his waist and their hands rest on top of Mike’s leg. No reason friends should keep holding on like that if the breakdown has passed, right? Although, Robin’s new to the party, what does she know about their dynamic? Is it bad of her to presume their connection runs deeper than friendship? That’s another train of thought for another day.

“Can I come in?” she asks affably.

Mike shrugs.

“Yeah,” Will says, “come in.”

She moves slowly as not to blow them away, scooping her skirt and sitting on the floor across from them. “Steve and I didn’t mean to interrupt, we were just,” she gestures awkwardly. “We had to come find you guys.”

Mike rubs his puffy red eyes with his free hand. His bangs stick to his face where tears have half-dried. He hardly resembles himself next to Will for how small he seems, and Robin senses the pair has switched roles. Will was trembling at the mall last week, crying even while fighting to survive. Now he’s confidently supporting Mike’s boneless body. He asks Robin, “Is everything okay?” while rubbing the back of Mike’s palm with his thumb. She’s held a girl’s hand like that more than once, but not because she’d been crying.

“Not really,” she sighs. “Mike, your family is getting ready to leave.” Crestfallen, he starts to pull free of Will, and she hastily corrects herself. “No, no, it’s okay! Steve told Mrs. Byers we’ll meet everyone back at your house. We don’t have to rush, I was just letting you know what’s going on, you know? I’m sorry.”

He falls back like he can’t take anymore, and Will lets go of his hand only to hug him to his side securely.

“How are you feeling?” Robin dumbly asks in the silence that follows. “I mean, you don’t have to say anything, I just figured somebody should ask. Your family wasn’t exactly jumping to get back here and check on you.” She says it with a little eye roll, like they’re in on it together.

They’re in on nothing together, and Mike looks like worse. “I--” he starts painfully. She sees a glistening swatch of puke on his sleeve. How can she help him? This is a nightmare.

She shakes her head and again says, “I’m sorry.”

“No offense Robin, but aren’t you supposed to be with El?” At the mention of her, Mike’s breath hitches. He looks at his lap. Will doesn't apologize for bringing her up.

“Change of plans. The dingus begged for my company today, so I’m going to the hospital after lunch.” Which she seriously hopes is at the Wheelers. Sad as she is, this unexpected morning has built up a hunger for home cooked dishes gifted to a freshly broken family.

“Come on,” Will helps Mike stand up. He’s unsteady on his feet and leans against the counter. “Rinse your mouth, then we’ll get going, alright? Once we’re home you can lay down. Sleep, if you want.” Will searches him as Robin stands, noticing how blatantly Mike avoids facing his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

After several beats of him staring at nothing, she turns the faucet on. He lowers his head and cups his hands, straightening up a minute later with water dripping off his chin. Will turns off the faucet while Robin grabs a paper towel to dab his face dry. She dampens a few to clean his sleeve, and it's then that Mike meets his own reflection. In a blank voice he says to the mirror, “I’m going to be in trouble.”

“No, you won’t be,” Will assures, brushing Mike’s hair away from his face.

“Seriously," Robin says, "no one can say anything to you. Besides, we’ll be there to defend you, including Steve.” She tosses the paper towels in the trash bin, watching him in the mirror for any sign of relief. None.

He says, “It won’t matter.”

“Sure it will.”

“No.” He turns to them. “I’m telling you guys right now, it won’t.”

* * *

They pop the doors open and drop into the car. Mike and Will sit on opposite sides in the back. Steve checks them out in the rearview and says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Will echoes. “Thanks.”

“No problem, man, anything I can do.”

“Told you I’d bring them,” Robin smiles, clicking her seatbelt in. “You guys buckled up back there?”

“Wait a second.”

She turns and sees Will lean over to secure Mike’s seatbelt as the latter watches distantly, like it's not even his body. Once the belt clicks in Steve starts the car and asks directions to the Wheeler’s. Hasn’t he been to their house a bunch of times? Whatever, Mike can’t say where they're going, so Will navigates easily from the backseat as the other stares absently out the window, sniffling occasionally like it’s allergy season. Robin watches Mike through the side mirror right outside her door. The precise collar of his shirt and jacket, his throat pronounced because he’s slouching. His lips slightly parted like he has to breathe through his mouth. Robin has yet to lose anyone close to her, and now? She’s dreading when that day comes.

She leans forward and switches on the stereo, volume low. They’d been listening to an album she brought on tape since Steve owed her for doing him this favor. They’d left off at one of her favorite songs. Springy guitar riff and Lindsey Buckingham’s voice. _Loving you isn’t the right thing to do._ _How can I ever change things that I feel?_

Robin hums along and folds her legs up onto the seat. Steve nags, “Hey, hey, shoes! What did I say about the shoes?”

“Okay, _chill_ ,” she laughs, loosening the laces and kicking her sneakers off, then adjusting her legs back onto the seat. She starts to sing, “ _If I could, maybe I’d give you my world…_ ”

And Steve joins in, “ _How can I, when you won’t take it from me?_ ”

She pulls her hair into a ponytail with a cushy blue scrunchie and feels Steve eyeing her like she’s beautiful. The dingus _really_ needs to calm down. Honestly, she feels bad for him-- for all of them, at this point. It was hard sitting in the service listening to an admittedly hot college-age cousin of Mike’s describe Nancy in only the most shining of lights. People love to deconstruct the dead by omission and reconstruct them by rewriting history, making them saints of their own accord. Nancy was fine, but her life was tainted, and why hide that? Why act like she didn’t break a boy’s heart without ever explaining? Or pretend she was never involved in seedy underground spywork of her own? To be fair, the family probably doesn’t know. Still, drawing connections with Jonathan as her sidekick, without telling _anyone_ until it was almost too late? Maybe things could have been different.

The heavy drum beat of this song always gets her, adding drama to such a happy vibe. A hint that it’s not actually so happy: letting go of who you love because they simply won’t let you. Steve taps the heel of his palm on the wheel. 

As they pull down Maple Street, Robin sees Mike in the mirror shift, clueing her into their surroundings. There are cars lining both sides of the street and Mike's convinced he's in trouble. If he is, it'll be public. Robin unbuckles and turns all the way around. “Want us to drive around a little longer?” His answer is a pouty nod. “Cool, but if you don’t mind? I’m turning this one up.”

Soft and dreamy, soothing piano, polar opposite of the last song. _For you… there’ll be no more crying…_

“What? Rob, no,” Steve objects, “this one’s way too sad.”

Laughing, “And what are _we_? It’s our song.”

He makes a face like _fair point_ and joins in with her gentle singing. “ _For you, I’ll give the world…_ ” They roll down one of the neighboring streets, past the house of the first girl Robin had a crush on. She doesn’t live there anymore; her family moved two summers ago, before all of this Commie monster crap unearthed. Lucky. How is she doing now?

_And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before._

Steve pulls the car into a tight spot halfway down Maple Street as the closing notes fade. He cuts the engine and lets the lyrics sink in. Then he unbuckles and checks the rearview. “Ready?”

“No,” Mike says so lightly, as if no air left his lungs. “I can’t--” He brings a hand to his chest.

Now Steve turns. “Dude, are you having a-- what did Max call them?” He looks at Robin.

“Panic attack?” Will supplies. “You’ve never had one of those, have you?” He watches Mike warily.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then what are you feeling?” Robin leans on the back of her seat. “Talk to us.”

He closes his eyes. “I’m in trouble.”

“For what?” Steve asks.

“For walking out and not going with them in the car, for not telling my mom.” He opens his eyes. “For everything.”

“Well that’s bullshit,” Steve says. “I’ve been through this too, you understand? You won’t be in trouble, cause here’s what’s gonna happen.”

“Please, no game plans,” Mike groans, head resting on the seat.

Steve bounces out of the car and around to open Mike's door. “Come on, look at me.”

“No.”

“Come on, listen. We’re gonna walk through the front door, together. Okay? You and Will go straight upstairs and you ditch that jacket, cause it seriously smells. Get into comfortable clothes if you can-- you’ll thank me later. Then you come back down, and me and Rob stealthily get you down to the basement, and then we'll bring you food.”

The basement?

Mike looks at Steve like he’s lost his mind but is just desperate enough to trust him.

* * *

Against their plan, Mike’s grandmother sees them enter and marches upstairs after her grandson and Will, who returns dejectedly ten seconds later. Steve’s asking what just happened when Dustin skips over. “Finally! I was starting to think you guys bailed.”

The three are too startled to reply, so Dustin continues. “Lucas went to get a plate of food. My mom made this amazing lasagna, you’ve gotta try it.” All the gravity that seemed to weigh on Dustin’s shoulders at the church has lifted. He watches expectantly, his adorably toothless grin annoying Robin for once. “Well?” he asks. “You guys hungry or what?”

Dutifully Will states, “I’m waiting for Mike.”

“Oh, right-- Mrs. Wheeler was totally freaking out when we got back, she didn’t know where he was.”

“But I told Mrs. Byers!”

“And apparently,” he tells Steve, “it went in one ear and out the other. When me and my mom walked in she and Mrs. Byers were talking. Mrs. Wheeler was pissed at your mom,” he looks at Will, “for giving Mike permission to go with you guys.”

“Permission?” Robin blurts. “Mrs. Byers didn’t give him permission, it wasn’t a choice-- Mike’s family _left_ him!”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “like how else was he gonna get home?”

Dustin shrugs. “They would have figured it out. You guys coming to get food or what?”

“Or what,” Will says humorlessly.

Steve looks at he and Robin apologetically and starts down the hall. “Want me to make you a plate?”

She glances at Will, who edges closer to the railing at the bottom of the stairs. “Go eat,” he says. “We’ll catch up in the basement.”

“What is with this basement?”

With a little half-smile he says, “You’ll see.”

* * *

On line she wishes she were already with El. She could lie and say Mike is fine, practice her ASL and eat snacks. Robin’s teaching her time signs next: days, months, how to say next week, last week, and how to read a clock. Numbers are usually a challenge for new signers but El is picking it up as if she already knows ASL and simply needed to be reminded.

Lucas and Erica have already gone down to the basement through a door hidden between the kitchen and living room. Robin is behind Steve and Dustin, who are talking not-so-quietly about what they missed. There’s a spread of food on the island and the counters, dishes and pans and bowls on every surface with offerings from other families. Meatloaf, potato salad, finger sandwiches, pigs in a blanket, over-dressed iceberg lettuce. The sink is full of ice and cans of soda and beer.

“Seriously, I’m glad you guys are here, cause I don’t know how long I can be around Mike.”

Steve scoops himself a serving of baked ziti from an aluminum tray; way too heavy for summer, but she doubts he cares. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Mike’s too depressing to be around right now,” Dustin explains as he fishes a can from the sink. Then he stands there, waiting for Steve and Robin to finish loading their plates. Robin’s appetite is suddenly waning.

Steve says what she’s thinking: “And what the hell _should_ he be? His sister just died!”

“I know, but it’s--” Dustin shakes his head, his curls flopping. “I can’t do it.”

“Can’t do what?” Steve presses. There’s no good answer, Dustin knows this. Robin plates a handful of pretzels as Steve disappointedly says, “You’re really something, man, you know that? Really something else.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“You’re being an asshole,” he hisses. “This is your friend we’re talking about, your job is to be there for him, not avoid him cause he’s no fun.”

“Jesus, it’s like you like him more than you like me!”

“Yeah?” Steve cocks his head, eyebrows up. “Well, maybe right now I do.”

* * *

It’s a pretty rad basement. Games, books, posters. Toys. Dustin’s tone has changed; he and Erica are eating alone at the card table, bickering over _The Neverending Story_. Mike is on the couch between Will and Lucas, whose styrofoam plate is already cleaned off. He and Will only caught up a minute ago-- how long did Will wait for him at the bottom of the stairs?

Mike-- whose suit jacket was replaced by an itchy knitted sweater vest-- isn’t eating whatever Will got him. Lucas did convince him to nurse a Coke, so at least there’s some sugar going into his blood. Steve is on the chair nearby, and Robin is sitting on the floor eating off the low coffee table because she does not want to sit with Dustin while he's acting weird. She occupies herself as she chews by testing how far her hearing extends. Creaking floorboards above them, the resonating baritone of men and the alto click of high heels. Muffled voices of varying tones and behind that a backdrop of classical-- a canter, perhaps? Time passes this way, the noise of Scoops Troop children competing with the hushed melodrama above. A teenager is dead.

“Rob?”

“Yes, Steve?”

He tips his chin at her plate, standing up. “You done?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” Handing it to him, she makes her face into a question. _Are we leaving soon?_ She's thinking of El.

“So, I-- uh, there’s one more thing I gotta do, okay? Then I’ll take you to El's. It won’t take long, I promise.”

Mike’s breath hitches again at the mention of her, drawing everyone’s attention. “Uh,” Steve side-eyes him, “you good?”

“Shit,” Lucas says. “You guys left early yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Kinda, why?”

The card table babbling has ceased. Before Lucas can explain, Dustin announces, “El dumped Mike _again_. Like for real this time. Am I right?”

Erica leans across the table and smacks him just as Lucas groans, “Totally unnecessary!”

“What? You were just about to tell them!”

“Not like that.”

Awkwardly Steve balances a styrofoam plate in each hand. It’s true he and Robin left early yesterday, especially since El was due to spend the rest of the day with the Byers and didn’t need their company. “Sorry,” he tells Mike, “I didn’t--” One of the plates slips out of his hand and bits of sauce and a dirty plastic fork topple onto the carpet. “Shit!” He stoops to pick it up and drops the other. Robin gets up to help him.

Erica’s voice rings obnoxiously. “Dingus, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“Butterfingers!” Dustin laughs. “I’m telling you, it’s like those drugs never wore off!”

Lucas leans forward on the couch to judge Dustin with arms open. “Seriously, dude?”

“What?”

“Lay off of him, and Mike! And you know what? Just lay off of everyone!”

As Lucas says this Steve reiterates, “I’m sorry,” to Mike, eyes trained on the plates now stacked neatly and held with both hands. “Really, really sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Mike shrugs. “Totally fine.” But he leans forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands. Not fine at all.

“Robin, I’ll be right back.”

Once Steve escapes up the steps she tries for the right words to ease the tension, because she’s the oldest kid in the room and doesn’t that make her partially responsible?

Thankfully Lucas speaks first. “He said there was--” squinting suspiciously-- “something he _had to do?_ ” To Robin, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Still with his head in his hands, Mike answers. “Probably going up to my sister’s room.”

“Oh, no.”

He turns to Will, the only person he’s made eye contact with. “What?”

The other recalls anxiously, “Remember when we went up there earlier?”

“Oh yeah.” Mike’s eyes widen. “Your brother.”


	27. Jonathan

Next to the day Will died, and the day they exorcised the Mind Flayer from his tiny body, this is the worst one. An impossibly miserable day, framed in the light of other people’s suffering.

A wave of sickness rolls over him when he enters Nancy's room. He claws his way to her bed and rests on the edge, surveying. The sight of her belongings is unbearable but it’s a necessary punishment. Survivor’s guilt. That’s what his mother calls this. Said she experienced it after Bob was mauled, and again with Chief Hopper. If it was supposed to make him feel better, she failed.

He reaches for Nancy's pillow and brings it to his face. What is this? Her smell has been replaced by something else. Someone else. Mrs. Wheeler? Jonathan throws the pillow carelessly onto the bed, crying tears of indignation. Of course she’s been in here. Tainting Nancy’s memory, impressing upon the whispers of her with incorrigible maternity.

Footsteps coming up the stairs. He jumps-- how could he forget to shut the door? And how bold is he to sneak up here as if he has any right to? Thankfully it’s only Mike and Will, but they see him before he shuts the door.

On the other side of the wall Jonathan hears his brother’s surprised voice. “Woah, did you do this?” No audible response. “I can help pick it up. Or, I can clean and you rest.”

 _NO_ , Jonathan thinks. _Don’t be his maid!_ But would he have done it for Nancy? Unquestioningly. As far as Will’s crush goes, Jonathan understands. He knows what it’s like to crave a person, to desire being their protector. He can’t change how Will feels and wouldn’t want to; he’d die before shaming his brother for liking boys. It’s Mike he resents. Jonathan warned him against producing the tragedy that comes when such desires go unfulfilled, yet here he is accepting Will as sentry, setting Will up for a broken heart. Neither El nor Will should put any of their eggs in the blown out basket that is Mike.

Another set of footsteps. Who now? A woman. Will retreats, apologizing, leaving Jonathan to eavesdrop on family. “What happened to you!”

“Nana, I--”

“Sneaking up here without seeing your mother first? Do you know how worried she was? Thought she had lost you…!”

It becomes inaudible, the woman rattling through wooden drawers. Then a judgmental grunt. “Didn’t I tell you to clean this room up? Pigsty!" Pause. "Excuse me?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Well, clean it up, _now_. And put this on. Then see your mother right away. Understand?” Silence. “Michael, I’m speaking to you!”

Jonathan’s stomach turns. He is reminded of Lonnie. How their father would scold _him_ never mattered as much as how he berated Will. Always judgment on the younger one was crueler. Will was undeserving. Is Mike? Or is he due punishment as well? Who is Jonathan to say? No one. Still, his own opinion is clear.

Not thirty seconds after his grandmother leaves does Will come tiptoeing back upstairs. “Just sit down, okay? Please. No, no, Mike, I’ve got this.”

* * *

Inside her hand-weathered jewelry box Jonathan finds the gold ballet slipper necklace. She’d stopped wearing it at Christmas, when he’d gifted her a gold chain with a bright gem. He lifts it delicately, winds the chain around his knuckles like a rosary and sinks to the carpet, his back stiff against the dresser. Breathing is easier but the soreness seems everlasting, even with his collection of pills. Today he hasn’t taken any. Properly appreciating the unaccountable impact of this requires a clear head.

His head is bowed to the necklace folded in his hands when a hesitant knock disturbs him. He makes no effort to reply, and in walks Steve Harrington. “Oh, hey,” he says amiably. “Have you been here the whole time?”

Jonathan nods, hoping he’ll leave and go back to his girlfriend, but he enters and shuts the door. “So, uh, I’m sorry. I can’t even tell you how sorry I am.”

Suddenly those words come easily to him? Jonathan’s voice is shaking. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s sympathy, man, cause I get it.”

“You don’t. You never could. Back off!” he says when Steve walks close and sits across from him. “I’m not interested in talking to you or even looking at you.”

There’s a silence, one Jonathan wants to fill with obscenities. He waits Steve out. Clearly he’s at a loss for words. Idiot. Fallen king. Naively hoping there’s a chance. The second Jonathan gets home he’s swallowing two pills.

“Hate me all you want, but you shouldn’t be alone right now,” Steve says faintly. “We should talk. About her, the kids, anything.”

His face grows dark, his eyes glassy and fists clenched so the tiny gold chain pinches his skin. Pitiful, how Steve thinks there’s room for recompense. “I have nothing to say to you,” Jonathan spits. “You shouldn’t even be in here.”

Instead of _neither should you_ , Steve asks, “What is it?” His subdued manner suggests he might actually have feelings. “Why do you hate me? I’ve apologized, I-- I replaced your camera, I didn’t even fight you over Nancy, I just wanted her to be happy.” He shakes his head. “What do I have to do?”

The camera from two Christmases ago? Nancy had given it to him. Was Steve the one who bought it? An omitted detail that admittedly wouldn’t have helped him come around. Even here, in Nancy’s bedroom, with her over a week dead, Jonathan can’t accept that his camera is from Steve. It was Nancy’s first gift to him, an object with value far greater than its weight and purpose. A symbol that she cared, loved him in some way. They hadn’t just shared trauma-- they had fallen in love.

A love rescinded, like the love his brother will never receive from Mike. Why do pretty people get more? Mike, with his thin neck and large eyes like Nancy. Steve, with his hair and money, his connections. He’s an untalented jobless loser now, yet _still_ manages to get a girl.

“Get your girlfriend and get out,” he says tensely.

“Girlfriend?”

“Don’t lie. I saw you and Robin Saturday night.”

Steve’s eyes dart about until he places the scene alarmedly. “Whatever you saw isn’t what it seems. Robin’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend, which, honestly? You could use a few of.” He shifts. “We could be your friends. I swear, we could be, and it’d beat sitting here miserable and alone.” There’s a lift in his voice at the end. Hope.

Jonathan says, “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Satisfying shock on his face, as all the implications fall into place. “What?”

“I’d rather die than sink low enough to accept your charity.”

“Are you--” he starts confusedly-- “Are you kidding?”

“Dead serious. It should have been you in that box.”

This is followed by an abrupt, wordless exit punctuated by the slam of a door.


	28. Joyce

Every bone and muscle aches. Absorbing a mother’s pain, _adding_ to it, and redeeming herself all in one day. There is no reprieve. She needs to gather Will (did Jonathan already leave?) because tonight they are bringing pizza to El. Home seems weeks away but her soul craves its quiet and comfort. A cigarette and sunset on her own front porch.

She learns that Jonathan slipped out after the Sinclairs. Mrs. Henderson saw; she and Dustin were next to last to leave aside from a few relatives, because Claudia had been so generous, helping with the food.

Joyce finds Will in the basement. The lamp is on and Will is sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, attentively reading. Behind him Mike is asleep on his side, his nose close to Will’s ear like they’d been whispering until he dozed off. The scene is sweet, a fresh breath.

“Hey,” she whispers, wearing a tired smile. 

He marks his place in the book and whispers unhappily, “Time to go?”

She nods. “We’re going to eat with El, and then get some sleep.” Gesturing at Mike she asks, “How is he doing?”

Will shakes his head. “He fell asleep as soon as Dustin left.”

About a half hour ago. That’s certainly not enough to make up for what he’s missed-- Karen’s mother said she’s noticed his lights on in the middle of the night when she went downstairs for a drink. “Let’s not wake him, then,” Joyce says, beckoning Will.

He places the book on the coffee table. As soon as he shifts to get up Mike inhales sharply and opens his eyes. He lifts onto his elbows, concerned, then sits up all the way and looks around like he had no idea he’d fallen asleep. “You’re leaving?”

“We have to see El,” Will explains.

His face falls. “Right, yeah.”

As Will stands up Mike slings his legs over and plants his socked feet on the floor. He scrubs his face roughly with both hands and blinks at the carpet. Joyce watches him for a minute, struck by how disoriented he is, and how despairing.

Will looks between them. “Mom, can he come with us? For pizza, and then sleep over?” Mike looks mortified. “El doesn’t hate you,” Will adds. “She wants to be your friend. It’ll be fine, and later you can get more sleep.”

Joyce is nodding. “Of course! Mike, if you’d like that, I’ll go talk to your mom and dad.”

He hunches. “They’ll say no.”

“It’s worth a try,” Will encourages.

“That’s true. It never hurts to ask.”

“Except that it does,” Mike mutters.

She moves to the couch and sits close beside him. Will mentioned this shift in mood. It’s hard to witness his distress in person. “Listen, this is very important.” Mike looks at her. “I know your parents aren’t able to do their best for you right now. Losing a child is just too hard-- for you, too-- and it’ll be hard for a while before it gets easy again. It does _not_ mean you shouldn’t ask for what you need. It does _not_ mean they hate you.” He nods lamely. “Be honest, would you like to come home with us?”

“More than anything,” he says hastily, “but--” He lets the sentence dangle without an ending, then sighs.

She smiles, patting his wrist. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

* * *

They’re standing next to each other looking hopeful when she returns with bad news. It wasn’t Karen who denied him the right to reprieve, nor Ted. It was his nana, who emphasized the need for _family time,_ describing her granddaughter's death as a _private matter._ She thanked Joyce for being so helpful and made it clear her service was no longer needed. It was also clear to Joyce that Mike would not get what he needed from them-- she was right about that. How dangerous that could be, denying him time with people who understand.

Mike starts to cry, then tries to stuff his emotions away. She cannot imagine this child going unheld for another second and moves quick to embrace him, her most reassuring mom-grip: the _I’ll-never-let-anything-hurt-you_ hug, _it's-safe-to-cry-you’re-not-alone_. She stands tiptoe because he’s tall now and cups his head with her hand, kisses the side of his head twice and feels him shake off a few small sobs.

“We love you,” she asserts. “You are always welcome in our home.”

“I’m not,” he mumbles into her shoulder, returning the hug in a loose way that fails to convince her he doesn’t need the affection.

“What do you mean?” Carefully she pulls back enough to see his face. “What do you mean you’re not welcome at our house?”

“Is this because of Jonathan?” Will urges.

That’s right, how could she forget? He told Joyce about Wednesday afternoon, and how the unknown exchange between Jonathan and Mike added to yesterday’s tension with El. Luckily whatever happened at church today between these two was generative, because her boys seem as close as ever now. Unquestioningly Mike is one of hers. Part of her collected family. They need to stick close.

Mike separates from Joyce, nodding. “Yeah, but-- I don’t know, it’s fine.”

“What did he say to you?” she asks.

“I don’t want to tell on him.”

“Forget acting childish, just tell us,” Will implores **.** “It’ll help.”

He considers this with a doubtful pout. “It won’t. But I’ll tell you, okay? Only because you asked.” Mike lowers his eyes. “Jonathan’s right, you know. I am making things harder for you.”

Joyce squeaks, “Is that what he told you? That you’re making things harder on Will?”

“That and how unfair I’ve been to him because I--” he looks at her son and can’t say it. Then he looks away and finally admits: “I abandoned you when El came back. He said I shouldn’t come around to see her, because it’d hurt you. And, I mean, it doesn’t matter anymore because she doesn’t want me, but he’s right.”

Joyce feels heat coming off Will. How long has Mike protected Will? Years, he’s always been supportive. Now it’s Will’s turn and, brother or not, he’s enraged at Jonathan. He stays laced together for Mike’s sake, although to her it’s clear he’s fighting not to tremble. “He’s _wrong_.”

Mike dares to look at him, then again averts his eyes. What happened to her son’s confident best friend?

“Sweetheart,” she interjects, “Jonathan’s been hurtful lately-- hurting himself, too. He’s pulling away from us and being mean. You might not believe this, but it isn’t personal to you.” She squeezes his bony shoulders. “You’re welcome over anytime, you won’t be hurting us. And if you can’t come over, you can call. Do you understand? Whenever.”

She pulls him into another hug and this time Will joins too.

* * *

After their goodbyes to the Wheelers, Joyce walks ahead of the boys through the carport and lights a cigarette under the sunset sky. She leans against the driver’s side door of her rusty car and watches them hug under the fluorescent bulb. They pull apart and whisper to each other. About what? They’ve always been so close. To say Mike abandoned Will is inaccurate, but she understands Jonathan’s fear; one could carry the other entirely, it's just in their loyal nature. Should their dynamic grow skewed, she would step in. Talk to them, like she once instructed Hop to do.

 _Hop_. She sends a silent prayer up in smoke that wherever he is, he’s okay, sending his energy back to Earth so she can manage. Single parent, three children, one income. Owens is one of Jim’s blessings, that’s for sure. She thanks the sky he was daring enough to involve that man.

Mike rubs his eyes, pouting, and Will nods at whatever words were said. He looks up at the other, steeped in stardust and concern, a hazy moon rising over the roof. The sight of him walking to the car makes her warm and almost happy, proud of the survivor she raised and how strong he’s become, until a minute later when she pulls out of the driveway and Will-- watching Mike shrink in the mirror-- bursts into tears.

* * *

Those tears were the prelude to a greater landslide within. As soon as they’re through the door Will rushes Jonathan, who is lolling half-asleep on the couch with the TV turned down.

“Wake up!” he screams, stomping his feet. “Wake up wake up wake up!”

“What the hell, Will!” Jonathan swats the air as his brother yanks the throw blanket off him and casts it to the floor. He sits up, glassy eyed, as Joyce closes the door and slips into the kitchen to watch without being in the way. She raised them to work out kinks and disagreements on their own, and they usually do, but in their emotionally compromised states this issue might be unsolvable without her support.

“It’s worse!” Will roars. “You said you enlightened him, but it’s _worse_!”

“Jesus, Will, what are you talking about?”

“I thought you told Mike that I’m gay-- that I like him! But you told him he’s making things harder on me?” He’s already hoarse, face blood red. “How!?”

What follows is a pause so long Joyce wonders if Jonathan had never suspected Will might be gay. It’s something Joyce has privately assumed for a while, though who her child wants to kiss is hardly her business, much less a concern to bring up. But Jonathan barks with laughter. “How? Because he is!”

“How?” Will echoes, looking down at him ludicrously. “How could you make him feel like he’s burdening me and being unfair? He’s the one person who treated me like I was normal when I was sick! He trusted me even when the Flayer was inside me. He knew I was in there and trusted me to help stop him. Mike believes in me!”

“And I don’t?”

“Obviously not, because if you did you’d know I’m strong enough to care for him while _he’s_ sick. Friendship--”

“ _Friend_ ship?”

“-- is-- yes, friendship! It’s a trade off. But that’s not anything you’d know about, is it? I’m your only friend.”

“My only friend is dead, so fuck you!” Jonathan yells sharply.

Joyce is shocked, thinking now’s the time to step in, but Will stands his ground. “I’m really sorry you lost Nancy,” he tells his brother. “Honestly, I am. But--”

“I don’t care! I don’t. Care.”

“-- her loss isn’t Mike’s fault. He’s going to come over a lot, for me _and_ El, and because he needs a safe place to escape to. And when he's here? You will not take it out on him.”

Jonathan folds his arms over his chest, eyes watering. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Apparently someone needs to! Grieve as long as you need, but you can’t grieve at the expense of Mike’s self-worth.”

“He’s going to hurt you.”

Will cocks his shoulders. “I’ve survived worse.”

Darkly Jonathan glares at him. Then he snaps, “Get away from me. I don’t even want to look at you right now.”

This, Will obliges. He storms through the living room, passing Joyce with a _Mom, I’m going to change,_ giving her an opportunity to talk with Jonathan. He calms relatively quick, but the further she tries to engage him the more evident it is that something’s off. At what’s arguably the most crucial moment, Joyce loses the power to reach her child.

* * *

In the middle of the night she starts-- the toilet flushing. Suddenly her bedroom door pops open. She reminds herself she’s safe. It’s just Will. In the dim red light of the scarf-shrouded lamp that stays on always, she sees the uncertainty on his face. His bangs are damp.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

He shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

“Sorry for waking you up, but, can I sleep in here tonight?”

“Of course, honey, come on.” She shifts over as he climbs onto her bed and snuggles up to her. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No, I think I’d better not. Nobody else needs to have that in their head.”

“I understand,” she says, meaning it. She wraps an arm around him, acting big spoon to her not-so-little child, and feels his heart racing. “Will--?”

“I’m worried about Mike.”

She tries for a soothing tone, but she’s frightened by what he won’t share, and so her words are to comfort herself as well. “If you want, call him. But I’m sure it’s okay for now. Everyone’s safe.”

Does he believe that? Does she? She has to-- otherwise Jim’s death was in vain. They killed the monster, she thinks. They exposed the Russians. They closed the gate. It’s her monkey brain spoiling each moment with panic and paranoia, calling her to hypervigilance and sporadic sleep, afraid of hers and other people’s children’s safety.

Will’s heartbeat eventually slows, and although she could never ask for such a favor, holding her son puts into such a heavy sleep that when she wakes up, for just a moment, she forgets that Jim is dead.


	29. Mike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Blood, body horror

Is there a right way to inflict pain?

First aid basics say when there’s a cut you stop the bleeding, then clean the wound and dress it, but this is a different type of first aid. He sterilizes the boxcutter blade with a lighter, same way Max sterilized the knife she used to cut that _thing_ out of El’s leg at Starcourt. Then he surveys his thin, pale, unmarked arms.

After he said goodbye to Will, he came inside and his father called him into the living room. “You’ve been hiding all day, Michael,” he’d said. “It’s time you pull your weight around here. Clean up that basement of yours, then take out the garbage.”

This lack of compassion following Mike’s ugly meltdown at Nancy’s funeral and Nana’s cutting tone upstairs snuffed his already dwindling resolve to be strong. So, once the trash was securely in its bin, Mike slipped into his father’s toolbox under the carport and stole the thick-handled boxcutter he’d romanced over a hundred times before. Namely after Will’s death, El’s disappearance, and he and Will’s recent fight.

With the boxcutter heavy in his pocket he’d walked calmly back inside and helped with dishes. Then the phone rang. _Mike!_

Now he stands in the upstairs bathroom, where Nancy’s shampoo haunts the shower and her toothbrush judges him from its cup on the sink. He turns the blade over in his hand. The sharp side tickles his palm. Embarrassment makes him sick. His heart expands in his throat, depriving his thoughts of oxygen and swelling the compulsion in his veins. It’s too heavy, Will’s last words ruined him.

Nana made him take the call.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Tears in Will’s voice, hoarse like he’d been yelling. There was no good answer. “Well,” he continued, “Jonathan won’t bother you anymore.”

Great. Mike had been the cause of a fight, hadn’t he?

“I’m sorry,” Will went on. “I wish-- I didn’t want to leave you earlier.”

“I didn’t want you to leave,” Mike replied at last, not liking how it sounded. “How’s El?”

“She can't wait to get out of there, but she’s good. She knows so many signs already, it’s awesome. Oh-- next week we’re having a homecoming party. You’re invited.”

“Thanks.”

“El invited you."

Weird.

"Mike?” Will had asked in the silence. “Are you safe?”

“Safe?” He had felt the heft of the boxcutter in his pocket. “Yeah, I’m safe. Why?”

“Nothing. Just-- the look on your face when I left.”

_The look on your face when I left._

Somehow he’d known. Will always knows. In Mike’s defense, people do this all the time. He’s heard stories of kids cutting, or burning themselves-- all sorts of crazy things. In fact, Mike came close to acting on this impulse a hundred times during the year El was missing. Why didn’t he? Simple: Will was always there.

Maybe he should call Will back. He’d say the exact right thing to stop him, but-- could Mike even speak the words? _I’m going to cut myself._ Shameful. Scaring Will, he’d probably think Mike wants to kill himself, and he doesn’t. Does he? He’s hovering a blade over his skin, nervous he might sever a vein or gouge out his pulse in one inexpert swing of his hand.

Stopping himself isn’t worth what it’d do to Will. Regardless of Mrs. Byers words earlier, Mike knows Jonathan’s right. So the answer is no, Mike is alone, and he decides to do it quickly. As the blade dashes across his skin it pinches, unzipping him and drawing tiny beads of red in its wake. His breath comes startlingly loud in the cramped space-- the familiar rush of doing something dangerous, forbidden. His arms and legs go woozy, like he needs to sit down. He holds strong, the blunt edge of the boxcutter blade clutched tight between his thumb and fingers.

He lashes himself again. At first, nothing. Then blood wells in the hammock of flesh he carved. The swelling halts so long that Mike doubts his success. Is he a fuck up in everything? Then blood rolls sluggishly across the remaining width of his bony wrist. He gapes at the red spots that dirty the porcelain sink like fat drops of summer rain.

Suddenly he’s frightened. This is insane. What if he does it again? Another pinch with lazy blood, or an accidental gash fit for stitches? He can’t afford the attention stitches would bring. He’s been selfish enough. His eyes well with tears, how could he be so stupid? This time he drags the blade slowly, savoring the pinch. Too shallow-- his skin refuses to weep, even after a pause to breathe. Mike rectifies the imperfection by slashing fast over that same spot. Then again and again, three quick strikes so six cuts in total plop blood into the sink, where drops parade into a shallow of red.

Someone ascends the stairs, breaking Mike’s trance. He looks up and is startled by the reflection in the mirror. A narrow faced, pasty boy, hair flattened to one side and wine stained eyes thanks to the stealing of his sleep.

He looks at the blood again and thinks of throwing up. He turns the faucet on and rinses it away, and the blade, then hides it in a box of Band Aids. He rinses his arm and blots it dry with toilet paper that breaks apart and sticks like lint, so he has to rub harder. Six asymmetrical cuts. A manifestation of the violence he carries inside. El’s leg, Lucas swinging an axe into a cord of Mind Flayer flesh, the squish of Max plunging a needle into Billy’s neck so hard Mike thought it punctured his airway. Forgotten Dustin. Frightened Will. Blood wells and he wipes it again. Blood wells and he wipes it again.

He unwraps bandages with trembling hands, sending bits of waxy paper floating in wayward directions to the floor. Once his wrist is sticker bombed-- half the bandages already blooming tiny flowers of red-- he picks up the Band Aid box and hits the light, craving the prostrate position of death.

The wall supports him on the way into his bedroom. He shuts the door and appreciates Will’s work-- books back on shelves, clothes in a hamper, pieces of board games back in their containers. He sets the tiny box on the bedside table, in case needs to rebandage the cuts. What a warm pulse, distracting him from what’s real. He recalls the look on Will’s face when he came into the bathroom stall earlier-- for sure that’s how he would look now, shocked, but he isn’t here and Mike is feeling lightyears better. 

He turns his wrist up again: calming flowers, maybe he should leave them alone. Can’t bleed on the bed sheets, though! In the bottom drawer of his dresser are long sleeved shirts and flannel pyjamas-- there’s the dark green set with ugly reindeer. He’s worn this shirt once, on Christmas Eve last year. Nancy had a complimenting pair.

His belly feels funny. He could have really hurt himself. But he didn't. Cutting stopped the nightmarish merry go round of thoughts and now he's tired-- maybe he'll actually sleep! If he does, this was definitely worth the risk of dying on his bathroom floor.

The day Troy drove Mike and Dustin to the edge of the quarry there was such a sureness to Mike’s decision to jump that it wasn’t a decision at all, but an act of service. Dustin’s life over his. _Besides,_ he remembers thinking, _we could be wrong about Will._ If they were wrong about Will, would Mike want to live any longer? Even with the possibility that Eleven would come back?

It was something he’d never told Nancy, although he’d wanted to on those nights he’d wake up falling. Quarry, jumping, the roller coaster weight drop and then nothing-- until the jerk of El’s powers that he swears nearly popped his joints out of place like a doll. No matter how desperate the nightmares made Mike, he couldn’t tell Nancy about jumping. He knew ‘no more secrets’ was bullshit; she had reappeared with Jonathan Byers and knew how to shoot a gun, and when asked, refused to explain. Curt little answers before telling him to get out of her room. _It’s not a secret, Mike, it’s just not something you need to know._

She had thought he’d never need to shoot a gun. They thought it was over, the whole party, and it wasn’t and it wasn’t and it still isn’t now, he can feel it. Nancy’s death is only the beginning. If he had known their last conversation would be that one about El, would he have changed the subject?

He decides not to touch the cuts again. The flattened blots of dark blood look good and besides, the post-pain hush puts him to sleep as though Will is still in the room.

* * *

In the dream he is standing in a pumpkin patch waiting for his mother. They came to have family fun with baby Holly and Nancy. Except Nancy didn’t come. She stayed with Jonathan across town, on a swing set draped in moss and overwhelmed by fog.

Fog reaches the farm too, and when he calls out _Mom?,_ it breaks a spell that lifts the daylight away like an out of season tablecloth, abandoning Mike in the planet’s natural darkness. Funny, darkness being the default state of things.

Nancy’s laughter trickles. He turns around. There is a wagon rolling unevenly across the ground. Instead of a tractor or horses it is powered by pigs. Nancy laughs again, she and Barbara are on a hayride and Mike calls, _You’re not supposed to be here!_ His voice kills her laughter. And Barbara, doesn’t she know she’s dead? Mike is afraid to tell her-- Nancy should be the one; she surveys him atop a hay throne. “If you want to be a human being,” she says, but her jaw melts away and dribbles down her chest like party puke. Barbara laughs and says, “Girl, put your eyes back in your head!”

It’s then Mike notices they aren’t blue anymore. They’re not even eyeballs, but chunks of steak-like Flayer flesh that push out of her cranial vault and topple to the floor of the wagon.

The pigs snort hungrily. Scared as he is, Mike’s responsible for Nancy. “Come on,” he urges. “We need to find Mom and Dad. They’ll know what to do.”

“Know what to do about what?” she says, her teeth tinkling out and sprinkling the dark dry grass. Pigs strain against their leather straps, working toward the teeth Mike frantically collects. Mom will be so pissed if he loses them.

When he fills his pockets the cart is gone and so are Nancy and Barbara. It’s he and the pigs. He has to put them to bed, then he’ll go inside and rest. Will kept saying: rest. That’s what he’ll do-- tell his parents Nancy’s sick, deliver her porous teeth and inform them he’s going to get some rest.

In the barn the pig pen is illuminated by football field lights, washing away the pink brown flesh of animals so they’re like paper mache, caked with mud and hoofs peeling back like the nails he’s been biting lately. They proudly parade through the low, open gate marking their pen and go about slopping over buckets of suet and shitting so that hay mud and feces are mixed like the siding of an indigenous person’s hut in a forgotten arid country.

“Good pigs,” he says, hoping if Mom sees she’ll remember he was a good boy.

He’s about to shut the gate when one last pig comes lumbering through the floor-to-ceiling wide barn door. How could he not notice the gaping darkness beyond the lights? Lights above him at once revealing who he is and blinding him to everything on the other side. A whole audience could be watching, waiting on the _clink_ of teeth sinking into their full glasses, a Demogorgon salivating over the taste of him. They already took the dead!

“Come on, stupid pig,” he says to the one thumping along-- on its chest, he sees, not its feet. Its cracked tail is a broken toothpick flicking through the air.

“I’ve gotta go. Come _on_.” He lunges at the animal, prepared to drag it into the pigsty himself, when he notices both its front legs are broken, scraping bloody under its belly on dust encrusted concrete. How obedient is an animal that can push through pain this severe? It’s back left leg is splintered like a disconnected whisk or an inside-out umbrella, blown out and crunching, ribbons of bones and flesh slapping like a snare as the pig uses it’s one non-broken leg to shove itself forward, the skin of its chest scraped clean down to muscle.

“Shit, shit, shit!" Mike drops to his knees and reaches into his pocket for Nancy’s teeth. He extracts the largest molar, the surface of it held tight in his fist and four roots facing up. “Hold on!” he tells the pig, then thrusts the roots into the base of the splintered leg, where the ball joint should be. Now the pig has a second foot to stand on.

He’s reaching back into his pocket when he realizes it’s not the pig whose limb is in ribbons. It’s his own left forearm, wrist and hand, the webbing between each finger split all the way up, blasted through pinball machine bones and rubber band tendons, so when he lifts his left arm in horror it flaps from his elbow like a wet mop head.

A sick animal squeal gets real, real loud. Someone's silhouette appears at the edge of darkness. Will.

“Mike,” he trots over, “Mike, stop screaming! It’s not real.”

The squealing gets louder, rattling his jaw and ears. He crawls backwards, leaving blood smears, and presses against the pig pen fence to hide the mop arm behind his back so Will can’t see.

“I already saw it.” Kneeling on the ground with him. “Please stop screaming. Please, Mike. It’s not real.”

Suddenly the noise cuts off and there’s this chewing, like eating pasta or bagel or gum, and a satisfied tug at his elbow. A satiated snort.

“Will?" Mike asks. "What’s happening to me?”

“Don’t-- don’t turn around,” he shakes his head wide-eyed, staring behind him.

Mike turns around. Pigs are slurping and milking his lukewarm strips of skin, suckling on ruffled roast beef cuts of muscle draping off his elbow, crunching on potato chip sliced bones that electrocute him into sweaty, feverish wakefulness where he finds himself unequivocally alone. 


	30. Dustin

“Mike. What the hell.”

“What the hell what?”

“You can’t be serious-- you do realize it’s a billion degress outside, right?”

He shrugs evasively. “It’s not that bad.”

“Oh, but it is,” Dustin replies coarsely. If he’s sweating in his shorts and short sleeves (he forgoed a hat because it would ruin his curls) then Mike must be dying in his short sleeve shirt and _flannel_ button up. When does he ever wear plaid anyway? It’s clear Mommy’s not dressing him anymore, but he obviously can’t dress himself.

Whatever. Dustin’s not here to judge him-- not anymore, at least. Steve’s exit last Monday bothered him. The whole day of Nancy's funeral sucked, but Steve was the weirdest part. He said he had something to do, and was only gone a few minutes before rushing back to the basement all _Rob, we’re leaving, NOW,_ awkwardly apologizing to Mike a thousand times.

Dustin had followed them upstairs and out to the car, trying to get a word in edgewise about what the hell was going on, but Steve wouldn’t say. Was he really that mad? About what, the Mike comment? The nickname? It wasn’t serious! None of it was serious, and my God, how could it be! If Dustin took everything seriously after what they’d been through his head would explode at the wee sound of a bee buzzing by.

Anyway, Steve was right. Of course Mike was depressing to be around, and Lucas was right too that Dustin shouldn’t be cajoling or avoiding him. As one of his best friends, it’s his job to be there for Mike. When a member of the party reaches out for help-- where had that attitude gone? Just because the party has fallen apart, like Will said, doesn't mean they have to forget each other completely or destroy what's left. No matter how much it brings Dustin down, he’s going to try.

It was his idea to ride their bikes over to the Byers’ together Sunday afternoon, although he’ll be riding home alone. Ted Wheeler, in an unprecedented attempt to be useful, insisted he’ll pick Mike up tonight and throw the bike in the back of the station wagon. No more riding in the dark.

They’re headed to El’s for a welcome home party planned by Robin and Will. So weird to say that now: Will’s house = Byers, and Byers = El’s house too. All her friends were invited. Even big brother Steve, who Dustin had called yesterday to ask for a ride, only to discover he isn’t coming.

“Yeah, I’ve just got something else going on,” he’d said over the phone. “I’ll see you guys soon. Say hi to Max for me, okay?”

Dustin didn’t buy a word of it. “Are you upset with me? You can just say it, Steve, I won’t give you any shit.”

He had laughed sharply. “Shit’s all you’ve been giving me, but not everything’s about you.”

“Fair. What’s this about, then?”

“My, uh, my dad needs help with some stuff around the house.”

_Bullshit._

* * *

They get to the Byers and toss their bikes down out front. Mike had been dragging behind and is damp with sweat. He anxiously adjusts his sleeves as Dustin loudly knocks. Someone shouts _it’s open!_ and they enter to see a burst of streamers and colorful signs like a birthday party. It basically is one, since Dustin’s ninety-five percent sure Mrs. Byers actually adopted El, although Will was unclear about it when asked. Sometimes he could be that way-- private about stuff. There was no need. Again, one of Dustin’s best friends, although with everything going on he decided not to push.

Will’s in the living room fiddling with the record player. His face lights like a damn Christmas tree when he sees Mike, who advances and stammers, “Your hair!”

“Don’t you love it?” Robin skips in from the kitchen, where she and El-- who follows her in on crutches-- were just wagging their hands at each other excitedly. “I gave him the David Bowie Live Aid cut.” She runs her hand across his short, side swept bangs.

Mike nods dumbly as Dustin laughs, “David Bowie? Well, I’ve gotta admit, Robin, it’s a thousand times better than that outdated bowl cut.” He looks at Will. “No offense to your mom.”

“None taken,” Will grins, stepping away from the record player and gesturing to El. “Guys, are you ready to meet my new sister?!”

“Hell yes! Come here girl."Dustin hugs her tight despite the crutches. “Welcome home!”

She thanks him, giggling into his luscious curls, and he frees her so Mike can greet her-- who cares if they broke up? It’s not like it _just_ happened, it’s just permanent now! This newly insecure and timid Mike flushes pink, eyes flickering between El, the floor, and the three innocent bystanders. “Say something,” Dustin urges out of the corner of his mouth. “Literally anything, you’re making this so uncomfortable.”

Mike shoots him a look and then tells El, “It’s really good to see you home.”

“Alright, you did it!” Dustin whoops, turning his friend an ugly shade of red. El, who’d been looking momentarily sad, responds to the enthusiasm with a half-smile.

“Thanks,” she tells Mike. “I’m glad you came.”

He says, “Me too,” but it’s drown out by Will asking, “What would you guys rather listen to, Sting or--?”

“ _Dark Phoenix_ is depressing!”

Their heads swivel to see Lucas parading into the living room with an annoyed Max in tow. “It shouldn’t even be on her shelf!” he complains.

She’s holding a small stack of comics, brow raised to the sky in disbelief. “And you honestly think there’s more substance in your _New Teen Titans_ Judas contract?”

“I’m just saying!”

“Saying what? That El shouldn’t be exposed to stories about danger? Her whole life has been danger, at least she’s represented here. She should have the option to read it, and _Avengers Annual #10_ , and any of the rare female-oriented comics that exist!”

“Woah woah woah!” Dustin exclaims. “Where did you guys come from?”

“El’s room. We’re organizing her new bookshelf.”

“And _adding_ to it,” Max clarifies. “Presents for El, to start her collection.”

Dustin grins at El. “It really is like your birthday!”

“What?” Lucas squints, confused. “Dude, can you help us settle this or what?”

“There’s nothing to settle!” Max argues. “El deserves to read stories about women, end of discussion.” Then, exasperatedly to Robin and El, “What is _with_ boys?”

Dustin looks at Mike to see if he’ll react to the comment-- he’s heard from Lucas all about the argument that took place between him, Max, and Nancy in Hopper’s cabin July fourth. Since Nancy’s funeral, the Sinclairs have been allowing their kids out of the house. What a relief, because Mike never leaves now, and he hasn’t told Dustin shit. It still bugs him that Mike and Max wouldn’t give any hints about their conversation the night they came over for dinner-- maybe they bonded but that doesn't mean they're really friends. At least Lucas doesn’t hide stuff, and thank God, because Dustin would have died of boredom this past week alone. 

Mike has no reaction to Max’s comment. It’s Robin who says sagely, “Can’t explain them. No way to explain them.” Then El makes this gesture, shaking her head, to which Robin says, “Good! I wasn’t sure you’d remember that one so fast!”

“What was that?”

El answers Lucas, “What she said. Can’t explain.” She signs it again like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Dustin realizes they’d been signing to each other in the kitchen when he and Mike arrived.

“Seriously impressive,” Dustin comments.

“Thanks,” El smiles.

Max presses her boyfriend. "Are you still expecting help from them, or are you ready to get back to work?” She flew back from California like two nights ago and judging by her intensity a week with family was no fun.

Lucas closes his eyes, takes a breath, then opens them. “Yes, I’m ready.”

“Let’s go.” They disappear down the hall.

Robin whistles like a dizzy parent and signs something to El, who nods excitedly and turns to her friends. “We’re baking cupcakes. Want to help?”

“Uh,” Mike says, “I think I’ll stay in here and--” Dustin kicks his shin-- “Ow!”-- and looks at him pointedly. Mike concludes, “Yeah, I’ll come help.”

“And, if you ladies don’t mind, I’m going to make sure those two don’t kill each other.” Dustin tilts his head toward the hallway. Once he’s received the head nod of approval from El, he makes his way to her room which, he notices, hasn’t been painted yet. It’s something they toyed with doing last week but ultimately Will said El should be the one to pick.

“Hey,” he says to Lucas and Max.

“Hey.”

They’re sitting on the floor by a small bookshelf next to her dresser. Will’s room wasn’t big, but it seems huge now. El’s bed is pushed up lengthwise against the wall under the window, rather than in the middle. Will had a desk but El doesn’t, and her dresser and bookshelf don’t take up space. There’s nothing much on them, nothing hanging on the walls, no curtains up yet-- another choice they left to her. The only thing that stands out is the dark green recliner next to El’s bed, pulled away from the wall enough so it can extend back. He plops on the chair and reclines, getting a whiff of cigarettes and beer. “Jesus,” he says.

“You’re going to donate some stuff too, right?” Lucas slips a thin _Spiderman_ into place on the shelf.

“Yeah, I’ve gotta look through my collection.” Honestly, there’s nothing he wants to give up, but Max has a point. El deserves stuff.

Dustin aids in the organization process for the next ten minutes, getting off the chair and onto the floor to boss them around. There’s no more debate about what belongs on the shelf, just a matter of how to set it up.

Finally Dustin asks what he’s been dying to know. “How was California?”

Lucas makes a little noise like, _Uh-uh, abort!_ Too late. Max’s hands drop to her lap and she levels him with a full blue gaze. “Awful.”

He wasn’t expecting a forthright answer. “Yeah, I bet. How was your dad?”

Her eyes bulge. “ _My_ dad? How’d you even know I saw him?” She swats Lucas. “Did you tell him?”

“No way! I think he means--”

“Your step-dad, yeah, what’s his face?”

“Neil?” she laughs bitterly. "He's drunk. Really, really drunk. His family--” she spaces out for a second before concluding, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” he says, even though he doesn’t. He’s different from his parents, way different. Especially unlike his father! Although he’s already broken at five or six laws at the wee age of fourteen.

“It was sad. His mother was there.”

“Billy's mom? What’s she like?”

Max shakes her head and picks at the carpet. “She wasn’t even sad. She just looked uncomfortable. I mean, Billy talked about her like she was the world but, she left Billy with Neil when he was little and--? Neil never cared, either. It was like no one at the funeral felt anything. They were just going through the motions, and,” her voice cracks, "it's sad that no one really cared.”

“Well, I can see why.”

“That’s not fair." She wipes her eyes. “He was a racist and an asshole, but he was one of us.”

“Woah, Billy was _never_ in the party.”

“He was a kid, Dustin. An unloved kid. You know, I bet Nancy’s funeral was filled with people.”

“It was a private thing,” Dustin counters.

“There weren’t a lot of people,” Lucas confirms in attempt to mitigate.

“Yeah?” she says spitefully. “Well then I bet they were all sad.”

The boys can’t counter this.

“Neil’s talking about moving back to California, whether or not the lawsuit goes through.” She shakes her head, sighs. “I feel like it’s my fault, and before you say it’s not,” she raises her voice over them, “consider this-- when El told me something was wrong, I didn’t believe her. Just like I didn’t believe Lucas last year, until I saw it. But it was too late. If I’d believed her from the start, we could have helped him. He could still be here.”

Dustin struggles to imagine a world where Max _wants_ Billy around. He figures alive is better than dead, at any rate, because of all the drama it brings. Mike, El, Steve, Max. Wrecked. They shouldn’t feel guilty about it, though.

“A lot of things could have happened,” Dustin explains, “and maybe in other universes they did. Infinite possibilities of ourselves. But here? This happened. Someone was going to get hurt at some point, and this time,” he uses Will’s line, “we lost people.”

“That 'everything happens for a reason' shit is useless,” she rolls her eyes forcefully, fingering a necklace chain at her shirt collar, “and there isn’t a Heaven. Trust me.”

Lucas was right-- he shouldn’t have asked. Should have helped Mike, Robin and El with the cupcakes. Being around Mike is no more fun, though, even though he's genuinely trying to stick by him. Reality is? Dustin misses his friends while they’re right in front of him. He hates how changed they all are, and feels like a freak because he isn't. How else could he survive this but spin each intrusive memory into something good? He’s happy to be alive, seriously, but it’s impossible to revel in that when everyone around him is steeped in death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comic Credit: “X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga”, 1980; “Avengers Annual #10”, 1981; “The New Teen Titans: The Judas Contract”, 1984


	31. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “Love Is The Seventh Wave”, Sting, 1985  
> Song Credit: “Rhythm of the Night”, DeBarge, 1985  
> [Spotify link in work summary]

After Joyce goes to work El successfully bathes by herself, although Robin stays within earshot in case she needs help. She’s sick of needing help! The doctors let her go, which means she’s better, and better means she should be independent. Yet she’s out of breath just from crutching down the hall to her new room, wrapped in her new terry cloth robe.

Twenty minutes later she and Robin finally decide on a party outfit: the colorful romper El wore the day she dumped Mike (the first time). Freedom is what the outfit reminds her of; something she wants to feel again, and ultimately the need for air against her skin wins over the discomfort of modeling her stump. All her friends have seen it anyhow. Some have even seen the stump uncovered and don’t seem grossed out, so who cares that when she flexes her left knee it’s like some kind of crab extending a pincer?

She does.

Robin leaves her alone to change. El sits another minute, gathering the energy. What used to take two minutes now takes ten, twenty, or can’t be done at all.

Shifting on the chair releases Hopper’s scent, memories she isn’t ready for. Cigarettes, woodsy cologne. El jumps up as if burned and falls right onto her bed, then to the floor, and breaking down in tears, clutching the romper she broke his rules to get.

* * *

A kaleidoscope of almost-dreams on the couch, her stump propped on a pillow. El wakes from a pain pill induced nap around lunch time thinking she has two legs and cries when she remembers she doesn’t.

Robin and Will have made a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to keep them full until dinner, which is what El is really excited for-- pizza and soda, a fast favorite since the sunny day Steve and Dustin saw her at the hospital.

Jonathan stalks into the kitchen, startling El who hadn’t known he was home. There’s a walkman in the back pocket of his jeans and his headphones are on so loud everyone can hear heavy rock. He’s opening the fridge when Will says, “We made one for you. Jonathan, hey!”

At the sound of his name Jonathan turns and lifts the headphones away from one ear in annoyance.

“Sandwich,” Will says through a full mouth, “for you.”

Jonathan looks at the plate in the center of the table, then at Robin and El distrustfully in turn. Sunlight creeps in through gold curtains, playing on his greasy hair and pimpled face. Will was right. His eyes are glossed over like he’s not actually here.

Suddenly he snaps at her, “Stop it.”

Robin interjects because El is too surprised to respond. “She’s just sitting here, dude, relax.”

“Yeah, staring at me like I’m a freak! Clearly Hopper didn’t teach her any manners. You and Steve might want to get on that,” he adds hurtfully, tossing the sandwich down. Jelly goes _splat_ on the plate. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

* * *

Robin is making cupcake batter while Mike and El read over the frosting recipe. Can they do it? Sitting by him now is nothing like it used to be. He’s mumbling the list of ingredients and she’s studying him like a word she can’t pronounce. His hair is oily and mashed to one side, his nails are dirty and he smells nasty. She wants to roll her wheelchair away but needs to look at the cookbook too. At once she feels nostalgic being near him, disenchanted by who he’s becoming, and guilty about permanently dumping him-- even if it was the right decision.

Mike looks up. “Hey, do you know if we have a zester?”

Instead of answering, she blurts, “Are you sick?”

"What!" Defensively, “No!” Then, curiously, “Why?”

Indelicately she taps his hard cheekbone and the discolored puffy half-moon under one of his brown eyes. He flinches. “You’re not getting better,” she comments, brow furrowed.

“Uh, well, I mean,” he starts fitfully, “everything that’s happened, you know? It’s been rough.”

She’s silent.

“It’s hard to sleep.”

“I understand.”

His chin lifts. “Oh. Are you awake all night too?”

“The pills make me sleep.”

“Good, right?”

“Bad dreams,” she shakes her head. “Always, bad.”

He sighs. “Yeah. At least you’ve got company, though.” He gestures to the living room where Will bops to the next track on the mellow album as he puts other records away. Mike is right. She has Will and Joyce, and even though tonight is her first night home she can feel it: support. They’ll keep each other safe. Although, in El’s heart she believes _safe_ is a state of mind, like _halfway happy_. Look at where that got her.

“Mike? What do you do when you have bad dreams?”

He averts his eyes and tugs at the sleeves of his wrinkled flannel. “Oh, I don’t know. Usually I read until I fall back asleep.” He laughs at himself. “I reread the whole _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy and you know what I decided? You’re Galadriel.”

El leans in. “Glad-reel?”

“Galadriel,” Robin turns from the counter whisking dry ingredients in a big ceramic bowl. “She’s this royal Elf in Middle Earth who--”

“ _Elf_? Like Santa?”

“No way!” Will laughs, bouncing into the kitchen and sitting across the table. “An elf like my drawings. Remember I was telling you about the different races and creatures?”

“Yes! Is Glad-reel a queen?”

“She can see into the minds of others,” Robin says, setting the bowl down and reaching for a measuring cup.

“Isn’t that reducing her character?” Mike poses, with the first shred of enthusiasm El has heard since the emphatic speech about her at the cabin. She is enraptured by the abridged and messy account of Galadriel’s life and how the three correct each other on lore and drop a dozen names she can’t pronounce. It’s only when Robin finishes the batter El realizes she and Mike were supposed to have set paper cups into the baking tray. Will makes a team of three, helping as Robin dances along to the silly tropical sounding beat, holding the bowl like a baby on her hip. “ _There is no deeper wave than this!”_ she sings. “ _Listen to me girl._ ”

A party of happy kids instead of trembling little animals. Max and the boys jabbering in El’s room. Will swishing his bangs to the side and humming along, Mike stealing amused glances at him. Getting to know who they really are. El loves this.

And later she happily absorbs the wildflower meadow conversation. Words bounce back and forth over greasy paper plates, refilled soda cups and wing bones like ping pong balls. Her eyes are saucers picking up every movement and sound. A pop album Robin chose; Joyce asking her millionth question to the group and winking at El; Dustin explaining Cerebro and Max bragging about the stock of reading material they brought over; Lucas maintaining his position on why it’s _better_ Erica didn’t come; Robin and Will bickering lovingly about bands while Mike, wearing a lighthearted smile instead of a pout, eats a whole slice of pizza-- even the crust.

And when Jonathan sulks in to load two slices onto a plate, El believes what Will told her. He just needs time to heal.

* * *

“Nana left last week and now my mom, she wants us to go stay at Nana’s until summer ends.”

“What?” Will balks. He’s sitting on El’s bed, back against the window wall. A sketchbook is propped open on his lap. There’s a little bucket of colored pencils beside him and the radio on her dresser is playing at low volume. 

“I know,” Mike rolls his eyes. He’s sitting on her bed, too, leaning back on the pillows. El is laid out on Hop’s recliner beside the bed.

After dinner was games and crutching sweaty around the house on sore underarms, eating cupcakes until Joyce kindly hinted it was time for El’s guests to leave. She knew what El wouldn't admit, that she way overdid it her first day home. Each friend hugged her goodbye and she cried the whole time, helpless on the couch. She had then crutched to the porch to sadly watch as Dustin rode off with Lucas, who had Max balancing on the back like El used to on Mike’s. Robin drove away in Steve’s borrowed car (she promised to tell Steve El said hi; she was sad he hadn’t come).

The late evening summer breeze had blown cool against her bare thighs and arms, but a scream boiled inside, ready to burn her into a puddle of flesh on the ground. It would have overwhelmed her if she hadn’t realized then that Mike and Will were right behind her on the porch. Mike’s dad wasn’t getting him for another hour, and Will would be here forever.

Responding to the news of Mike going to Nana’s, El asks, “Is it far?”

“A couple hours, yeah.” He says resolutely, “I’m not going, though. I told her, you and Holly go, and Dad too for all I care, but I’m staying here.” He looks at she and Will. “I’m not leaving you guys.”

She smiles, then frowns as a thought occurs. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

“I’ve been in trouble since July fourth, El. So what if it gets worse? I don’t care. At least, I seriously doubt I can feel worse than I already do.” He’s surprised by his own admission. “I mean-- I’m--”

“You’re not fine,” Will supplies.

El signs, “Not fine,” shaking her head to emphasize.

Mike bites his lower lip. “Why don’t we talk about something else now?”

Switching colored pencils, Will says, “El, what color are we painting your room?”

“Purple!” she exclaims, her right foot bouncing in excitement. Her left knee twitches like the foot wants to bounce, except it was chopped off. She imagines the doctors sawing through the flesh like Lucas chopping through Mind Flayer skin. Grimacing, she rubs the stupid shrinker sock. It protects her from the fluids they said might build up. It also protects her from seeing the disgusting creature that is her stump. “Purple. Pretty.”

“What shade?” Will pursues. El sprouts several ideas and he finds the closest shades and fills in a tiny square for each of them on a clean page. With each additional box he flips the sketchbook toward El, who signs _yes, no, maybe_. Mike stretches out his long legs and shifts lower on the bed and rests his head on the pillows. His eyes flick back and forth between them. His breathing slows, eyelids flutter, and soon enough he drifts off to sleep.

First she thinks _how sweet_ , and how nice! Her pillow will smell like him later. What a comfort his smell used to be. Then a burst of his gross new smell reminds her Mike is not the same. Later she’ll ask Will where the clean pillowcases are. He must notice the smell too; even Lucas commented on it at dinner: _Ugh, dude, you ever heard of a thing called deodorant?_

Mike is asleep by the time El and Will are lazily discussing curtains, which he says they can make themselves. A boppy beat surfaces and she falls silent to listen. Her foot starts tapping the air again. She recognizes the percussive song because of Steve and Robin:

_Oh, feel the beat of the rhythm of the night,_

_dance until the morning light!_

_Forget about the worries on your mind,_

_you can leave them all behind!_

She wishes she could forget her worries. Mike is, for now. He looks peacefully goofy, mouth open and head tilted to the side. Is he dreaming? If he is, what about? Has Will happened in any more of his dreams?

Will glances up from his sketchbook. Quietly he says, “You like this song?”

“Sure,” she giggles tiredly.

He smiles. “What’s so funny?”

She points, grinning, to the radio nearby. “How can he sleep through this?” 

“I guess he needs it.” A pause to listen, then he laughs too. “It’s definitely not a lullaby though.”

Once the song ends their smiles fade. El whispers, “Can you see him? Like you saw me.”

“Oh, you mean my dreams? I saw him last week, remember? But I haven’t since.”

Yes, she remembers. El is the only person Will has told about his dreams. Two so far. _Lucid_ dreaming, he called it. She understands it in relation to her own black space, which Dustin aptly nicknamed the Void. But she was always awake when she travelled, and her nightmares are increasingly horrific and not like the Void at all. She can't leave when she wants. In her dreams El stays asleep and, to her distress, powerless.

Lucid dreaming means Will has the power to save people, wake them up. He saved El from Billy, and he saved Mike, too, except he hadn’t wanted to wake him. An accident. _I didn’t want him to wake up and be alone in his room,_ Will had explained to her in the hospital Tuesday morning, the day after Nancy’s funeral. _I told him it wasn’t real_ (what had happened, Will refused to describe) _and was trying to figure out a way to get him out of there. To change the dream_.

Changing the dream. Is it possible? El could move around in the Void but never manipulate the characters. She was watching-- witnessing-- memories, experiencing the pain of whoever she was spying on, and yes, in the past week or so she has privately decided that anything she saw in the Void counts as spying.

Dreams aren’t memories, though, so what are they? She wants to find out. Rather, she wants Will to find out what she cannot. “You should try,” she whispers. “To go in.”

“Into his dream, like right now?”

She scoots up a little, wanting to grab the bar and close the recliner except the crashing noise it makes would disturb Mike. “Try what I do,” she says, looking around for a makeshift blindfold.

“No, El, I’m done spying,” he says firmly, setting a colored pencil back in the bucket. “After what the Mind Flayer did to me? I won’t. I refuse.”

“But your dreams,” she insists, “not spying. Helping.”

“Lucid dreaming isn’t something I can do on command yet, much less while I’m awake.” He studies the drawing of El in his lap. In the picture she’s levitating over the chair in a lilac room, and has one and a half legs. The anatomic accuracy and the word _yet_ reignite the anger. Doesn’t he understand how lucky he is?

Will senses her mood swing. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “You’ll be able to. Someday.”

“Maybe.”

“Yes.” Her fingertips drum the armrests. She should be happy for Will. He deserves power, he’s earned his right to use it, but she's so outraged by her own loss that she can’t be happy. Why haven’t her powers returned yet? At least, the last time she tried to move objects in her hospital room using her mind, she failed. It’s like the Mind Flayer, furious at El for opening the gate, played a trick on her as part of its last rites. Took El’s powers and gave them to her Will in a different way. If her powers come back, does he lose his?

It occurs to her then that everything she has, including powers, is borrowed somehow. Her family is Will’s, her friends were Mike’s first. They’ve saved her life and she’s saved theirs, although they did it by cunning, brilliance, and kindness, and her by using powers. Why were they revoked? Maybe because ever since escaping Papa two years ago she’s caused nothing but pain for the party. Well, she made Hop happy. She also happens to be the reason he's dead.

 _It’s better this way,_ she imagines Hop saying. _You don’t need those powers, and you don’t need me. You need to stay safe and Joyce is the best person for the job._

El is safe at the Byers’. She wants to believe it, except none of them have control over whether danger comes. How can they sit here right now like nothing’s wrong? She looks up and finds Will’s eyes. Why is her heart pounding?

“I knew something was wrong. You can talk to me,” he encourages.

Usually she can, but tonight she can’t because she’d have to admit how jealous she is. How ungrateful! During a fight last year Hopper had called El ungrateful. _I could have left you out there to freeze!_ To his credit, he had taken her in. She is forever in his debt and can never repay him or anyone else. Useless!

The doorbell rings. Down the hall they hear the front door open and Joyce’s high pitched hello followed by a man’s baritone voice. Reason escapes her. Hop! He’s alive! He had just been hiding, that’s all, and he’ll have a perfectly good explanation and he can hug her tight because her leg is gone and--!

“Hey, Mike? Your dad’s here.”

* * *

Will walks him out.

Walks.

Easy. Two legs. Effortless. Two feet. Up and down and up and down and up and down. Distant voices, indiscernible. Moments later he bounces back into El’s bedroom, grabs his sketchbook and says he’ll be right back.

Alone, her room seems unnecessarily large. An ugly pop song starts on the radio and her chest tightens. A head splitting, eye squinting, ear crackling agitation rides higher on each breath. Her full belly hurts. Her throbbing leg, tired head, and tortured heart. She resents Will. He has everything! Two legs and a family! Powers budding from the stems where hers were clipped, and she has nothing. Nothing! Her life has been one threat after another. If she didn’t train her powers the way Papa and his doctors demanded, she was punished by touch, hunger, or a long stay locked in the dark dark cage where the only sound to comfort her was her own hoarse sobbing. Using her powers was not a choice, and she quickly learned through praise that her worth lies in them. Steve said she’s more than her powers, but he’s wrong. She is nothing. On the other hand, Will? Will could be something! He’s freer than she’ll ever be. A crippled orphan versus a real boy. How to reconcile that? How to accept this reality where Will has powers he doesn’t even want to explore and her batteries are still drained?

Rage overcomes her. This life is a prison sentence, despite all this kindness she doesn’t deserve. She is shameful, being jealous of her new brother. Taking up space in his home, stealing his mama’s attention. El started attaching to Joyce in the hospital, and now that she’s home she’s terrified to lean into her nurturance because at the hospital it was a fantasy and here it’s real. Bed, dresser, radio, clothes, wheelchair, welcome home, upset big brother stuffed in his room. She’s not just borrowing but intruding in someone else’s home.

The recliner folds up with a loud _crack_. El squeaks in shock. Her hand is on the lever-- when did she press it? Her tummy flips and her heart races. Help!

Stupid! She needs to help herself. Her crutches are leaning against the dresser just out of reach and her wheelchair is across the room-- Will and Mike had helped her into the recliner earlier. It should be fine to get up and reach at least one of these things, right?

Rising is like rolling a concussed elephant over in a pool of mud. The air is sticky cement pressing her shoulders and in spite of having practiced balancing on one leg and hopping in the hospital, her left leg is unexpectedly light and throws off her balance. She falls to hands and knees, groaning aggravatedly, and shifts to her right side so her stump isn’t pressing on the floor. Kali’s voice enters her head. _Use your anger. Bring the crutches to you._ Could her powers have returned and she doesn’t know yet, because of the fog of medication and hospital lights? Could her anger recharge the batteries now?

She extends one arm, stretches out her fingers. “I can do it,” she tells the empty room, breathing heavy. “I can do it.”

But she can’t.

Again and again she directs her attention to the tools and can’t move anything. Straining, tightening her entire body, veins in her temples pulsing hard. Can’t can’t can’t!

She punches the floor until her knuckles are red. Shaking, she turns her hatred onto her left thigh, hammering it-- and her stump-- with the sides of her fists. She wants to peel off the sock, then tear the welded folds of skin apart with her overgrown nails and nasty crooked child teeth. Peel the layers away and see what’s under there. Flesh, just like the monster’s because that’s who she is! Not this critically acclaimed hero they say. Only a severed limb.


	32. Joyce

Ted waves Mike off to the station wagon he pulled right up to the porch and hangs back to talk to Joyce. “You know, Karen’s insisting on taking the kids up to her mother’s until the school year starts. Doesn’t want to be home. Or around me,” he adds with a chummy laugh.

“Oh,” she says. Mike, who used to be a fountain of information, was quiet tonight. If he mentioned this to El and Will the news should come around to her quick; they’ll be upset and want to discuss it. “When are they leaving?”

“Well, it’s not all of them.” Ted tips his head toward the car, rocking on his heels. “Michael is refusing.” After a slight shake of the head, “You know, maybe you can share your secrets with Karen, because I’m telling you, Joyce-- I mean, he’s almost a teenager, so naturally they haven’t been on the best of terms in a while, but now it’s darn near impossible to keep them in the same room!”

“What secrets?” she stutters, knowing she _did_ share hers with Karen.

“Why, parenting of course!”

“Of course,” she echoes. Joyce told Karen secrets about Hawkins in hopes that it would bring mother and son closer, help her parent by increasing empathy for her boy. Unfortunately that doesn’t seem to be the case. Joyce peers past Ted and locks eyes with Mike, watching her idly through the windshield. His eyes are still cloudy with sleep. She looks back at Ted. “What happens, then? If they’re in the same room, what happens?”

He shakes his head, shrugs. “Let’s just say there’s not much he can do right.”

“Ever? Or just recently?” She asks this as if it were a personal attack on one of her own children, because it is.

“Please! If I understood what goes on in my wife’s head, we wouldn’t be having these problems. She’s even making life difficult for me,” he says pitifully.

“Karen thinks bringing the kids to her mother’s will help somehow?”

“Less housework,” he presumes, “and she won’t have to interact as much with Mike. You saw how her mother took over this past week. Very competent woman.”

She wants to point out that letting Nana parent Mike while he’s plagued and grieving won’t solve their family’s problems. Then she remembers Ted said he’s refusing to go. “Do you need us to watch him?” Surely there’s enough room for a sleeping bag on the floor between Jonathan and Will’s beds. Maybe she could buy a cot with some of the Dr. Owens money, stow it away for times like this.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. Michael will do just fine with me. I appreciate it, though, and I imagine he’ll be pestering me plenty to let him come over here and play before summer’s through.” Responding to Joyce’s silence Ted adds, “Between us, it’s fine with me if he’s here. Better here than at home, really. Karen’s the one struggling to let him out of the house. Afraid something might _happen,_ ” he says critically, like they’re in on a secret together. How mortifyingly deluded he is.

“No father likes to admit he made a mistake,” he continues, “but somewhere along the line I did. To raise kids that meddle in the affairs of our own government? Why, I still can’t believe it! This business about the Russians, an explosion…” His brows lift incredulously. “And seeing that bone of Nancy’s, well, that was just torture.”

He has no idea what torture is. The porch scene fades and into flooding, blinding light, the hurricane whir of mammoth gears that vibrate through her bones in dreams and the subsequent 1AM, 2AM, 3AM silence. Flashes of her one true friend (how true _was_ Hop?) grappling with some maniac motorcyclist who’d been after them toting a gun. Joyce was sure she’d lost Hop long before she had to turn the keys-- the Russian was bound to throw him over the edge, and then what? She would never see him again! All this while their babies were upstairs. _God please let them be alive!_ Safety was dead but _alive_ could be helped.

“Everything alright?”

Her attention shifts but her consciousness is still in the basement of the mall. Ted looks her over like she’s insane. Mike concernedly watches with one hand on the door, prepared to jump out of the car and help. Is she falling ill? Suddenly her heart is pounding and her vision is blurring at the edges. Sweat clams up her palms and scalp. No. Not this again. _Just one day,_ she pleads, _just one full day without a panic attack_. Apparently it’s too much to ask.

Stiffly she says, “I think I’ll head back inside now,” wringing her shaking hands. Ted issues an oblivious goodbye as she pats her pockets for a pack of cigarettes. T-minus ten seconds until the walls cave in. Ten seconds to get somewhere safe. Nicotine, deep breaths. _You are safe_ , she tells herself. TEN. It’s a lie. Her body can’t believe it. Does the soldier mindset ever rest?

NINE.

She is a parent alone. Three children. Jonathan cannot and should not be counted as a source of support in raising the household. He should have never been in that position at all.

EIGHT.

El is inside, she needs to treat her stump before bed. Joyce shouldn’t have let company stay so late, she looked feverish and intoxicated. This is her first night in a(nother) new home, Joyce should be settling her in comfortably. Helping her clean and desensitize her stump, giving her a pill. Tucking her in.

SEVEN.

Joyce shuts and locks the front door. She walks through the living room on numb feet, navigating pinhole vision into the kitchen, where her cigarettes wait on the windowsill. SIX. She grabs the pack and tries for the lighter. Her hands are shaking too hard and a child is struggling somewhere down the hall. SIX.

A child is struggling somewhere down the hall.

ONE.

The bathroom door is closed-- is the noise coming from inside? Is someone hurt?! Joyce leaps, frantically knocking with the heels of both hands. “Will? El? What’s going on?”

Will calls back, “I’ll be out in a minute!” His voice sounds far. Noise around her grows fuzzy and unsure. Her throat is tight, airtube constricted and despite needing to ask questions she can’t form words. She is going to pass out, must sit immediately-- but a child needs her! There is a threat, danger, something in the house.

Breathing as if through a hazmat mask, she makes her way to El’s room and finds her, to Joyce’s shock, on the floor punching her stump.

“Stop!” she croaks, lurching forward. “Stop it!” She drops to her knees and grabs El’s wrists. Growling like a feral animal the girl bucks away, her eyes a clear warning to stay back, moving Joyce to tears. _Damnit, Hop_ , _how do I help her? What am I supposed to do?!_ She has to do something; these sepulchral moans are not supposed to come from a child. El hits her stump again and screams.

“Stop it!” Joyce repeats, grabbing her. This time El violently shoves her, and there’s a minute of scrabbling and screams. She takes several wayward hits before finally securing El by the biceps. They lock eyes. She’s trembling, afraid her grip might loosen, that if El so much as leans away she will lose this child forever, but by some miracle she stops struggling, impersonal tears streaming down her face as though she intrinsically understands that the only reason Joyce used force is she’s a danger to herself.

An alarmed Will peeks into the room. “Mom? El? Are you guys okay?”

Neither look up. Joyce tells El, “Breathe. Like this.” Something she was taught in therapy, because the medication she’s been taking for the past two years haven’t eliminated anxiety altogether. She’s still human.

The breathing exercise goes awry. She gasps, then pushes all the air out with an unrecognizable dying animal sound. Either frightened or sensing his place, Will steals away to his room and Joyce repeats her efforts. This time El joins. Her exhale is the wretch-like sob of an injured toddler. No words, but _let me show you how big my pain is_. Monumentous. Infinite.

Joyce nods, _Good, again._ And again, and again until the dogs across town must have stirred, so dissonant is their lament.

By the time Joyce’s panic attack subsides El has pulled her close and is weeping into her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she pleads on loop. “I can’t do it.”

 _Can’t do what?_ Joyce wonders. Walk? Obviously! Use her powers? Endure this anymore-- live? If she could conjure up the words to get El to believe she shouldn’t be sorry, that none of this is her fault, she would, but the girl is blamelessly in no place to receive that assurance. How many guns have been pointed at her? Enough to cause her to point them at herself, to reject this unsettlingly positive situation. There is help, affection, and love where in the past thirteen years there’s been hardly any. When Joyce found El tonight she was hitting herself. A single mother can’t combat the demons that drive a child to self-harm alone.

Luckily she and Dr. Owens have secured a prosthetics doctor in Chicago, as well as a child psychologist in a neighboring town. With motherly affection Joyce has started El on the long journey of healing, but this new Byers-- equal parts feral and child-- needs more than she can give. All she can do is love and sometimes that’s not enough to mend the ripped confidence of an abandoned child who is now finally quieting, apologies and voice dying out like the fun she had today. Joyce shouldn’t have allowed El such stimulation her first day home: she exhausted herself and broke down. Then again, wisened from experience, she knows that a breakdown like this could have been triggered by anything, and likely will be again and again until El develops self-worth and sheds both hate and grief like unnecessary armour worn after battle out of soldier’s hard-learned habit.


	33. Jonathan

Another family meeting, this time in the living room. He’s fully present since it’s before 3:00PM, the time after which he allows himself to take pills-- and only on the worst days, when he can’t stand sobbing silently into his pillow anymore. Although, in the past week it seems every day is the worst day, and somehow the finality of the day’s turn into evening justifies bracing for the incoming emotional brain of night. Valium tempers emotions beautifully and lulls him to sleep faster than weeping, or hugging Mom and hearing _you can talk to me_ for the millionth time. He sleeps dreamlessly at night, but when he wakes in the morning Nancy is still dead.

This afternoon El sits in her stiff wheelchair while Will rests on the couch beside him as if they’ve made up. He hasn’t spoken to Will since their argument nearly two weeks ago, despite the latter’s diplomatic attempts. How could Will provoke such a jarring realization as _my only friend is dead_? Plus, his brother has no right to tell him how he can or can’t treat the kids that tramp through their own home! Last week for El's party there were six, seven including his own classmate Robin. It was by the grace of Valium Jonathan even left his bedroom to grab pizza, and then only because he hadn’t eaten all day. By the grace of Valium he hadn’t bashed in Mom and El’s heads during their banshee screaming recital later that night.

Mom lights a cigarette. She tells the boys that she and Dr. Owens finally found a doctor worthy of creating El's prosthetic, that the first appointment of many is this Friday, August first. As she talks, Jonathan’s fingertips find the ballet slipper pendant strung on the thin gold chain he’s been wearing ever since the Wheeler’s reception. No cemetery burial meant nothing to bury. Apparently just a bone he’ll never see. The family turned it to ash, probably to stow inside a fancy little jar Mrs. Wheeler can carry around until her motherly misery takes her out. This necklace is the last existing totem, so what if he stole it?

“Our flight to New York is early Thursday morning,” Mom concludes. “Jonathan, maybe you can drive us to the airport?”

“Did you just say New York?”

“Yes, the Rusk Rehabilitation Center, it’s based out of NYU. We’ll be home the ninth or tenth. Takes about a week to make the plastic test socket from the cast they’ll take this Friday.”

He shakes his head, folds his arms over his chest. “I can’t believe this.”

“Why,” El ventures confusedly, “can’t you believe?”

“Because his dream is studying photography at NYU,” Will answers on his behalf, spiking Jonathan’s pulse.

El makes a sorry face, the same face she’s been making all week. God, how many hours has she spent in tears about her leg pain and dead father figure, about the monster flash backs? While Jonathan's hoarding pain pills she's pushing through, still kind enough to suggest, “You can come with us.”

“Thanks,” he says dismissively, “but family tourism isn’t my scene, and I’m not sharing a hotel room with _him_.”

“I’m not going,” Will says, swiping his bangs to the side.

“He’s not,” El echoes in the tense silence. “Me and Joyce. To get to know each other. Unless, you want to come?”

Jonathan frowns. “I’m not intruding on your mother-daughter bonding time.” He says the last part mockingly. El looks at her lap, the creepy stump hanging below her cutoff shorts, made from a pair of Mom’s old jeans. She deserves to walk again. Rationally Jonathan knows this. Yet each glance in her direction makes his stomach ache, partly because he can’t eat much on pills, but mostly because when he looks at her he remembers Nancy. The only person he’d accept comfort from is the reason he’s distraught.

Will moves on. “What are you going to do for a whole week?”

“Well,” Mom happily explains, “visit Central Park, window shop, maybe see the Statue of Liberty. It’s going to be fun, right?” Mom smiles at El, who nods, a small and rightfully reserved grin on her lamblike face. There’s a bit of talk, museums and bookstores and record shops he’d love and El invites him to join them when they return to New York at the end of the month when her prosthetic leg is finished being made. Thanks, no thanks, he’s turned his mind to other things: taking pills and a long walk to the town library where he’ll check out a few books on rituals to raise the dead. “You’re okay to watch Will, right?”

His eyes snap onto Mom. “What?”

Will sees his brother's dark expression and interjects, “I can watch myself. Really, it’s okay.”

Stress has aged Mom. Fine lines appear around her mouth as she puffs on the cigarette. Ashes float down to her knee and Jonathan knows what she's thinking. There are times when Will loses his thoughts mid-sentence or walks out of the room as if called by some invisible force, or gets caught standing in one place staring emptily at the world in a hard to break trance. It scares Jonathan more than he would admit. So when Mom says, “You shouldn’t be alone,” he understands.

But then she adds, “Either of you. You boys need to stick together.”

He puffs up indignantly. “We’ve stuck together, and where has it gotten us? The Chief and Nancy are dead, her leg was amputated,” he points to pink-cheeked El, “you’re having panic attacks again and he’s--!” Jonathan pauses, aggravated to the point of tears. In a tight voice, wagging one finger in his brother’s direction he says, “He’s got friends. I’m not watching him.”

An uncomfortable silence settles. His truculent, antagonistic behavior is foreign and throws Mom off. Her eyes shift, sifting through a million approaches to reel him in, return him to some semblance of who he was before this. If his once-generous empathy were accessible he would backtrack and apologize, vow to manage his temper better, be helpful again, but he’s trapped in a cycle of ruthless grief and self-prescribed numbness.

Sheepishly attempting to make peace, El says, “Maybe Will can stay with Mike?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Mom exhales. “It’s just he and his Dad til the end of summer, I’m sure he’d appreciate the company. Will, what do you think?”

“Jesus,” Jonathan spits.

“What’s wrong?”

To start, he had to hide Nancy when she slept over, because really, what parent wants to think about their teenager and his crush spending time behind closed doors? Yet here she is, unfazed by the idea of Will and Mike spending a week together under Ted Wheeler’s non-existent supervision. If that wasn't unjust enough, Mom must know as well as Jonathan how unlikely it is that if Will were bold enough to seek Mike’s affection it would be reciprocated. It wouldn't, and the week would end in heartbreak, which is worse than any of the supernatural dangers that could reappear at any minute in this Hellhole town. Experience has taught Jonathan how torturous it is to spend days enveloped in a beautiful person’s presence, craving their attention, only to suffer the reality of rejection. Nancy pulling her hand away. Nancy letting go of him. Nancy dating Steve. Nancy dying. Why send Will into a similar trap?

Jonathan refolds his arms over his chest. “Maybe you don’t remember what he said last week, but I do, and it seems pretty reckless to put him in that position.”

Alarmed, “To put who in what position?”

El turns, curious. “What’d you say, Will?”

“Nothing our brother is going to repeat.” His face is flaming red. “That’s between us. You promised.”

Jonathan jumps up so violently everyone startles and storms back to his room in an outrage. HIS room. Fuck patience and tolerance and all the morally idealistic bullshit he’s sick of demonstrating! Enough vigilance, enough trying to protect! What’s the use? Why be kind when, in return for their selflessness, his family has been tortured like a trio of bugs whose legs are plucked off one by one, a child’s giant face looming over and breathing the trash-hot wind of God?

* * *

Mom sits on the edge of Will’s bed, hands on her knees in a quasi-meditative pose, back straight and face calm. Jonathan was too overwhelmed to send her away, shaking angrily on the bed hugging his knees, wondering how many pills it'll take to wipe this away.

“Look,” she says, “I’m not here to scold you or tell you to apologize or whatever you might be thinking. I just want to know what’s got you like this.”

“You already know. You heard Will say it the night of Nancy’s funeral.”

After a blink of confusion: “What, that he _likes_ Mike? Jonathan, it’s okay.” She lowers her voice. “Being gay isn’t wrong.”

“I never said it was!" he explodes.

Her eyes dart to the door. “Then why shouldn’t he spend time with Mike?”

“Do you honestly not see it?" he says with some restraint. "Once Mike finds out, he’ll reject Will.”

“We don’t know that. What if Mike feels the same way?”

“God, Mom, he’s in love with El!”

“Yeah, well, that’s over, and these kids are full of surprises." She says it whimsically, twisting Jonathan up.

“Will shouldn’t be anyone’s second choice.”

“Sounds to me like you’re jealous.”

“I’m _not_.”

“It'd make sense if you were. Will has friends, close friends. He’s spending time with a Wheeler kid, something you can't do now, but, but--!” She gets up and sits next to him when he starts to turn away. “Disguising your jealousy as protectiveness isn’t going to help anyone. If Will gets his heart broken, then he gets his heart broken.” She shrugs, “Besides, he’s right. He's survived worse.”

“Heartbreak is different.”

“Yeah," she agrees. "We’ve experienced it, so if it happens, guess what? We’ll support him.”

"Not me," he says. He can't protect anyone anymore.

She studies him pityingly. “You know, it won’t be like this forever.”

He hugs his knees closer.

“Serious! And listen, even though I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave you alone all week, I’m choosing to respect you. Maybe you really need the space. It works out since Mike and Will need each other’s company right now, and you know what? If there's a romantic rejection," she smiles, "can you really imagine Mike turning Will away as a friend? They've been through too much together. Coming out like that, it'd just be another thing.”

He shakes his head. “How do you always do this? Spin everything into something positive as if it’s okay? Nothing about this is okay.”

She lays both hands over her heart. “No, it's not. But if I’m not trying my best day by day to move us to a better place then I’m failing as a parent, and I know, okay? What you said-- ? You were right. I should have picked a real father, a guy who would still be around, but I couldn’t see it then. All I have is what I have now. Three amazing kids and the gift of Sam’s blank check.”

He unfolds, hangs his legs over the edge of the bed next to hers. Her feet hardly touch the floor, like Nancy’s used to. “Mom, I’m sorry,” he says genuinely. “I know you’re trying.”

“Thank you. Honestly most days it doesn’t feel like enough. I’m always wishing there was a way I could turn back the clocks. I replay the night Will went missing. If I’d been home, or if he’d stayed at Mike’s a little longer, could it have saved him?”

Jonathan shrugs helplessly, thinking of his own extra shift. “Eleven had already opened the gate. The Demogorgon still might have found us. And if Nancy had gone missing and shown up waterlogged in the quarry, her parents wouldn’t have done what you did. Even I believed Will was dead. You were the one who knew. You’re a great mom.”

She pats his knee. “You’re a great son. Hey, I mean it!” she leans in for a half-hug when he laughs in disbelief, thinking about the stolen pill bottles hidden under the bed.


	34. Will

He enters the living room through the carport door. Mike, reclining in front of a restless cartoon rerun, looks over, revealing a necrotic quality about the face. His hair has grown out and is curling at the ends. Peculiar-- he’s wearing the same rumpled flanel as last Friday, and a blanket over his lap. It’s plenty hot if you ask Will, who drops his backpack to the floor. Mike tosses the blanket aside and meets him by wrapping both arms around his shoulders, engulfing him in an undeniable odor. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

After a beat of surprise, Will returns the hug. It’s like clutching a textbook to his chest. “Me too.”

A rare smile lights Mike’s lips as he pulls away and laboriously shoulders Will’s bag, heavy because he accidentally packed more books than clothes; some of El’s newer comics (he had permission to borrow them, obviously), two sketchbooks, and a book Jonathan was going to throw out. “You’re staying in my room.” It’s the first hint of confidence Will has heard in a month. “Top bunk is all yours.”

Their last sleepover was post-exorcism, pre- Mike spending all his time with El, and in spite of the happy display of affection in the living room, Will is self-conscious. Jonathan’s bitter voice plays on loop in his head. _He’s going to hurt you._ It was a hug between friends, he shouldn’t get his hopes up. Recognizing these thoughts stem from Jonathan’s hurt makes them no less tormenting. How many years has Will venerated his advice? Fourteen. Could he be right about this too? Should he have stayed at Dustin or Lucas’s instead?

As Mike swings his bedroom door open a new stench twists Will’s face and sends him to the window. He draws the blinds, pushes the window all the way up, and breathes fresh air through the screen. Behind him Mike rests the backpack on his bed. “Is it too hot in here?”

Will turns to inspect the room. Almost everything he picked up at Nancy’s reception remains in its place. However, there’s a persistent disorder-- yellowing dog-eared books, stubby pencils, strewn looseleaf papers-- giving the effect of a recluse med student who’s suspending personal hygiene until after the exam. Sunlight seems new here, touches Will’s bag and nothing of Mike’s, not even his tangled sheets draping off the mattress where, twisted up, is a silky purple cloth he swore he’d lost. “Hey, is that my cape?”

Mike pushes his unruly hair out of his eyes. “Oh, yeah.” The skin at his temples is spotted by marks like he’s been picking at zits although there are none. In fact, the sole blemish is the fading scar on his cheek. “I was just, you know, keeping it safe until you came back.” 

“Thanks,” Will says, pushing away the vision of Billy slamming Mike's face into a wall. The implications of this cape making it from the basement onto the bed like a favorite sweater or stuffed animal hit him as he pulls it free. Does Mike need it-- need _him_ \-- to sleep?

He tries to sound casual. “Glad you kept it safe.” Then, setting the cape by his bag, he finally replies to the question. “Yeah it is hot in here, and it smells.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Will calculates what needs to be done to counteract the disorder of his friend’s new lifestyle. A once competent leader needs to be led. “Why don’t we do laundry and let it air out? While the laundry’s in we can eat. When was the last time you ate?”

“Today,” he replies too quickly. “Why?” 

“You look sick.”

“I do not!”

“How would you know? Your mirror is covered again!” He points over Mike’s shoulder at a detail he just discovered.

“Fine,” throwing up his hands, “I ate yesterday. Dad brought home Chinese.”

At Will’s worst moments he still took meals, meaning this is something he can’t empathize with. Eleven, in spite of obvious despondence and frequent tears over mealtimes (which remind her of Hopper’s absence), obediently tucks in. Even Jonathan, who isn’t eating much, shows up at dinner to respect Mom’s rule of eating around the table as a family at least once a day.

Downstairs in the kitchen he props the fridge door open. Mike was lying! There is a container of General Tso’s, but it’s untouched! He bites his tongue and gets to work removing containers of weeks-old, spoiled food. Mike leans on the island, watching uncomfortably, wringing one wrist with the other hand-- a nervous gesture Will has never seen.

Curbing expletives, he carries a reeking crabmeat salad to the garbage. “God, is this all from Nancy’s reception?”

“Basically. Here,” he drags the garbage bin closer. Will opens the window above the kitchen sink and they work in silence, save a few _yes_ and _no_ ’s, until the fridge has three non-condiment items: a wrinkled apple, an open box of baking soda, and General Tso’s.

He closes the fridge. “I’ve got some allowance money.”

“My dad gave me money, too. Wanna go to the store?”

A strange yet exciting opportunity presents itself: this week they’ll have plenty of time to play house, since Mr. Wheeler works and Mrs. Wheeler is away with Holly, giving Will ample chance to return the care Mike so freely gifted him over the past two years. No one can judge because no one will see. Forget Jonathan, Will belongs here. “Yeah, let’s do that," he agrees. "Do you still have that wagon? We can hook it up to my bike. And,” fanning his nose, "let's get rid of this on the way out!” He hasn’t smelled such a pungent mess since their old dog rolled in a dead squirrel. Took an hour for him and Jonathan to scrub it out of that long fur.

"Good idea." Mike ties the overstuffed bag. “We can hook the wagon to the back of my bike, too, share the load.” He strains to lift the garbage and releases his grip miserably, shaking out his wrist.

Will absorbs the paradoxical state of his degenerative beauty, half-grinning. “No way. Until you eat, you're not riding your own bike. You’ll ride with me.”

* * *

They’re soaring down the main strip when a man calls out. Will feared this. Hawkin’s scrutinous eye is constantly hunting gossip. Zombie Boy and his matted sidekick are survivors, sensational in their mysterious innocence. Thankfully it’s just Steve, exiting the hardware store. Will pulls into an empty parking space at the curb in spite of Mike’s grunt, “Why did we have to run into someone?”

As the wagon rattles to a stop behind them Steve exclaims, “Woah, woah, woah, look at you!” He transfers a thick paper bag to the other hip. “Rob told me she cut your hair, but man! Will's a lady killer,” he wags an eyebrow at Mike, “am I right?”

He hops off the bike uneasily. “Uh, yeah, totally.”

“Totally,” Steve echoes, beaming like he found a hundred dollar bill rather than two kid brothers. “So what are you guys up to?”

“Groceries,” Will says, hands sweaty on the handlebars.

“There’s literally no food at my house.”

“Damn, people stopped bringing stuff by already?” When Mike nods he adds, “Shitty. How’s your mom?”

He shrugs bonelessly for a person made entirely of. “She left. For the summer!” he corrects, “Not forever.”

“Phew! You’re dealing with too much shit as it is.” He adjusts the bag. “My Dad’s been making me do stuff. Like, a lot of stuff. It’s totally punishment for existing but hey, you guys want a ride? I’m sure we can fit that in the backseat, probably the wagon can fit in the trunk.”

They exchange glances. Mike’s unimpressed but would clearly prefer a car over standing on the back of Will’s bike, holding his shoulders in public.

* * *

Grocery shopping alongside playful Steve is a surprisingly buoying experience, a welcome interruption giving Mike a vital ounce of levity. Junk heaps up in the cart that Will pushes along. He pleasantly listens to their conversation, occasionally tossing in items for meals he can cook because of Jonathan.

Back at Mike’s they unload groceries. Steve takes direction (pantry! no, fridge! cabinet!) and fumbles a carton of milk, nearly dropping it. Meanwhile, Will opens a can of tomato soup and pours it into a pot over heat. He sets a pan on the front right burner and a plate nearby for grilled cheese. When Steve falls to chastising his own stupidity, Mike graciously assures him it’s no big deal.

“Wow, so you’re not gonna call me butter fingers or some other dumb shit?”

“I’m not Dustin.” Mike hops onto the counter, legs dangling. He pops open a bag of Doritos.

“Thank God, cause I swear sometimes he sounds like my father.”

“Is that why you didn’t come to El’s party? He didn’t believe you about helping your dad.”

“Jesus, that kid’s too nosy for his own good.” He scoops a handful of the chips. “No, it wasn’t him.”

“Then what?” Mike crunches away, a sound Will never thought he’d be grateful to hear.

“Honestly? It’s your brother," he says to Will's back. "He hates me. There was no way I was going to your house last week, even if it meant being a shitty friend to El.”

Will turns from the stove, where the first sandwich is sizzling harmoniously. Family obligation makes him accountable for Jonathan’s behavior. “Sorry. He’s conspiring against everyone right now.”

“Why are you apologizing? It’s not your fault he’s acting like an asshole.”

“I guess.” He turns back to flip the sandwich, thinking, _It is my fault_. If he’d been strong and hadn’t let the Demogorgon get him, this ugly wheel wouldn’t have cranked its inaugural turn, coiling their lives together like a snake and striking at the worse moments. Death, destruction, dismemberment.

“You remember last month,” says Steve through a full mouth, “your sister’s thing?”

“You mean funeral?" Mike answers glumly. "How could I forget."

Will focuses on the texturous browning bread, wishing to shut out Steve’s admission: “Upstairs, Jonathan was sitting in her room, like the whole time, and I told him, you know, we should talk. Am I nuts? We should talk, right? We knew Nancy, we're one grade apart-- I don’t know, I figured we could relate, but apparently I’m wrong about that too! He said it should have been me in that box.”

Will presses the spatula against the second sandwich. Static crackle, private eardrum fire.

“Jesus!" Mike says. "He sounds like my mom.”

“Wait, wait, wait-- did she say that to you?”

“Not exactly, but I know she wishes it were me instead of Nancy.” Chips rattle. The bag is set down. “And honestly? Most days I wish it had been me, too.”

Indigestible truth. In Will's hand, plastic handle. Before his eyes a papered wall, mustard yellow tea kettle, spice rack. Heat.

“Dude, don’t say that!”

Unreal actors banter behind him. Dizzy, his consciousness shifts from stiff standing effigy body to the windowpane space between worlds and he watches, counter space occupied by fake food, labels in foreign languages. What is cheese? Magnet letters on the fridge spelling nonsensical sideways words, they’ll smudge if you touch the ink. Wind blows through the open window, summer scented hubris tickling his short bangs and mocking. Real children play outside. Real children lose not themselves but their inhibition. Real children’s brains don’t burn their bodies inside out. The painted effigy face cracks like clay, curling until geometric math manipulatives drop off, a disassembled Rubric’s cube _clunk clunk_ , splashing tomato soup on the pristine stove. Chunk of eyebrow hits pan and sears black, ear slaps counter like ham, ten teeth lodged in pink gums drop onto the floor, a scrap for the Demodogs. An invisible force snaps its fingers, splicing effigy Will’s body-- chalky blackberry tongue, marionette vertebrae, fleshy limbs-- into myriad fractions that scatter on the floor, tinkling of plastic dominos. Mortality is unbound to things of dreams and the layered inexistence of the mind’s milky creations is a power greater than God’s children.

“Will?”

_Who is Will?_

“Hey, buddy, you there?”

_Where?_

A heavy hand spins him around by the shoulder. The spatula clatters to the floor and Steve speaks through quicksand as food burns black. Mike pushes him away. “Not like that! You’re going to scare him.” Onion musk and gentle hands now, drawing Will close. “What’s wrong? Say something."

Plum bruised concern and eyebrows upturned at the center, Mike’s absurd angelic quality elicits from Will a tiny gasp.

“Oh, God,” Steve responds. “We broke him.”

“Shut up,” Mike hisses, tipping his chin at the stovetop. “Just take care of that!” He guides Will to a chair at the kitchen table, offensive sunlight and a straight shot view of the fireplace in the living room, on the other side of the kitchen. Mantle, family pictures. One is facedown. Either they left the TV on, or he’s hearing murmurs again.

“Will?”

He looks up. “Yes?”

Mike sighs in relief, breath alarming.

From the kitchen, “Is he alright?”

Searching Will, who cannot answer, Mike shakes his head. “He needs food.”

“Uh, no offense, string bean, but I'm pretty sure _you’re_ the one that needs food, and a--”

“Steve!”

“Okay, okay, I’m workin on it!”

* * *

A redeeming afternoon is spent in the basement, waiting to switch laundry to the dryer, Will poring over _Dungeons & Dragons: Basic Rules Set I _ as Mike impatiently explains to Steve, who can’t remember any names but, because of rockstar Robin, is interested in at least watching them play. If they ever play again.

He leaves before Mr. Wheeler arrives, carrying a bucket of KFC and an oily bag of sides. They eat on paper plates, bunched together at one end of the dining room table, an unfair ruse allowing Mr. Wheeler to pretend his family is intact. Three empty chairs and a high chair stowed in the corner are a glaring reminder of who’s absent, and who can never return. Will watches Mike, wondering how much food he can stomach in this room; if this is reflective of regular meals it’s no question why he’d rather starve.

“Good job filling the fridge, boys,” Mr. Wheeler comments.

“Thank Will, he’s the one who cleaned it out.”

“You helped,” he clarifies across the table.

“Well,” Mr. Wheeler adjusts his Coke-bottle glasses with oily fingers, “I’m glad the two of you had a productive day. Heard the washer machine running when I came in.”

“Surprised you noticed.” His flippant attitude and grease-glossed lips attract Will’s eyes.

“Oh, I notice things, son.” He chews noisily. Will wishes there were music on, like at home. He thinks of Jonathan. Is he eating dinner with no one around to make him?

“Tomorrow you boys should go to the park. There’s a baseball diamond there, you can practice throwing and catching.”

Mike coughs. “Did you just say throwing? As if we’re actually interested in sports?”

“Sure did. Freshman year isn’t too late to join. Football might do you good, get out some of that anger you have towards me and your mother.”

“I’m not angry!” he says angrily. “I’m just sick of being here.”

“If that’s the case, I can easily drive you up to Nana’s.”

Mike cuts him a vicious glance. “I told you, I’m not leaving my friends.”

“We’ll see.”

He rolls his eyes and drops a half-eaten chicken leg onto his plate. _This is it,_ Will thinks. This is how it happens. But instead of the anticipated chair-shove-storm-out, Mike looks at him, and Will smiles discreetly; apparently all the encouragement his friend needs to shake aggravation away and take up his meal again. 

* * *

It’s getting late. They had a goodnight call from Mom and El, eager to describe their fancy hotel and how nervous she is to meet her doctor. They’ve brushed their teeth and changed, playing parent to themselves. Mike even showered. Presently he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, watching Will display each comic he brought. The ceiling light exaggerates the circles under his eyes. Eating was simply the first step; the corners of his mouth are drawn down. Will has never seen anyone this young look so old.

“You need sleep.”

Mike drums his fingers on the blanket and studies his bare feet, flat on the carpeted floor. Water drips onto the collar of his long sleeved shirt. “Do you mind if we keep the light on?”

Will can’t sleep with lights on, and neither can Jonathan. Mom and El need lights on to feel safe enough to rest, though, so he isn't going to deny Mike the same sense of safety. “That’s fine. Are you still having nightmares?”

“If I sleep, yeah. The Flayer attacking us, or El getting hurt, or worse-- you. I wake up and my heart’s racing like crazy, it hurts. I don’t know what scares me more at this point--” he looks up, misty eyed-- “the memories, or this thing inside my chest.”

A car drives by. Canned laughter on TV downstairs. Mr. Wheeler’s probably asleep on his recliner. This house is lonely, lacking a mother’s warmth, a child’s laughter, and teen girl gossip. Here there’s just a held breath and _Mike said nightmares where I get hurt are worse_. Will remembers how it felt to hold him as he cried. Is it terrible to re-live such a moment of trauma sheerly to fantasize about affection? He craves it in waking life, and in dreams, but can’t control the admonishing spectacle of lucidity, which itself presents a unique surprise every time.

He's been aware of his own dreaming many nights since returning from the Upside Down almost two years ago. He’s even shared a few of those dreams with Mike, Mom, and Jonathan, who were fascinated, but only recently has it become a nightly habit, along with sporadically corporally sharing someone’s dream. One moment he's striding through his own realm of distortion, then suddenly he's in another’s. It’s hard to tell when he crosses over, similar to how difficult it can be to discern between reality and illusion during waking hours, like his lapse earlier at the stove. Once or twice his brain has burdened him with a certain fear: one day the lines will blur, and he’ll have no ground to stand on, only aether to carry him away. His head tells him not to worry. He is safe. However, if the single thing separating reality and dreams is knowing you’re awake, safety is an illusion all the same.

“I get it,” he says, sitting next to Mike on the bed. “My dreams have been strange.”

“Are you going lucid again?”

He nods. 

“But there’s more this time.”

“Yep. I’m not sure I can explain it.” He lays the comics carefully on the floor beside the bed, deliberating. El heard about the dreams first because she recognized him in hers, as a conscious being. She possessed powers once. Mike has none, how could he understand?

He nudges Will’s shoulder. “Try. I’ll listen.”

Last week he checked out books on dreams. He learned that humans wake a few times each night, mostly unconscious, before sinking like a stone into another sleep cycle. Is reentering the space what jumbles dreams like Bingo balls? He is lucid more often than not, but when he isn’t, stranger things are revealed suggesting a far greater, sinister force at the strings. Two nights ago he, Mike, Lucas and Dustin were watching the news. A little girl’s body found was ripped apart by a tree trunk covered in goo. The guy who was walking his dog and ran over when he heard the screams swears whatever animal did it climbed into the tree trunk and zipped it up like a sleeping bag. They flashed a graphic image on the grainy screen. Mike gasped: _Will, it’s you!_ Lucas retorted quick, _No, but it definitely isn’t a girl_ . And Dustin laughed: _You mean_ wasn’t _a girl._ He’d woken up and scribbled it into the back of his closest sketchbook, then snuck into El’s room to wake her up. He asked her to describe her dream and it wasn’t his-- wasn’t a shared dream. He had lain awake on her bed, open eyes absorbing a patch of gold where the nightlight blots the ceiling, until he formed a hypothesis: he had seen an alternate version of their lives. What if the Demogorgon got El instead? One dead in place of hundreds? Her in Will’s place? Four children savagery would never soil. El was dead in that dream yet completely unaffected in her own, leaving him to wonder if there could possibly be multiple versions of the self.

“There must be,” Mike comments at this juncture. “If we’ve been inside two dimensions, why wouldn’t there be more?”

“We don’t exist in the Upside Down, though,” he notes, recalling the story of Steve saving Mike in the tunnels. “Different creatures own that space and, I don’t know,” he sighs frustratedly. “If there’s multiple versions of us, which one is real?”

Mike pulls his legs onto the bed and shifts back against his pillows, grabbing a notebook and pencil off the nightstand. “Tell me about your dreams. All of them, since July Fourth.”

Appreciative of his enthusiasm, Will shifts to face him and together they dive deeper. At the end, Mike surveys his notes and looks up curiously. “Are you telling me I haven’t been in any of your dreams? Aside from that one?”

Blushing, thinking of unwarranted dreams where they are together, “Of course you have.”

“So tell me!” He taps the eraser impatiently. “Did you visit one of mine?”

This much he's comfortable to admit. “Once, yeah, the night of Nancy's funeral. I don’t want to repeat it, though. I’m hoping you forgot.”

Mike's face scrunches in thought, then his jaw drops, creating dark hollows in his cheeks. “Was it the pigs?”

An invasive vision-- squelch of flesh around the pig’s joint bones as it shoved onwards and suddenly vanished, replaced by an arm like stringy shredded cheese. He nods. "It was the pigs.”

“That’s why you told me it’s not real?”

He runs his fingers along the freshly washed blanket. Making the bed together was a favorite moment of today. “I wanted to get you out of there, to change the dream before you saw the pigs chewing on your arm.” Mike grimaces. “How’d you end up like that, by the way? Were you attacked?”

“Oh,” he hesitates, “right, yeah, one of the pigs attacked me.”

“Huh. Any idea why? Sometimes whatever's going on here is reflected there. Like, El had this dream where her leg was broken, and obviously it was because--" he shrugs. "You know."

"Right," Mike looks away. "I don't know. My arm just fell apart and then I freaked out."

"That's when I came in. I heard you screaming."

"So, you were called to me?”

He's red again. “Basically.”

Mike smiles at the sentiment, almost proud of himself for figuring it out. Then he refocuses. “If you end up in someone’s dream, when they wake up…?”

“I do, too. Pretty sure I’m at the mercy of whatever they’re feeling, like we're temporarily one.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s embarrassing, but I had to spend the rest of the night in my mom’s room. I couldn’t breathe. My heart wouldn’t slow down.”

“Sorry.” He passes the notebook over.

“You can’t control your dreams,” Will dismisses, skimming the chart. “I just hated to think of you waking up alone with that in your head.” He returns the chart to the nightstand. “How long did it take you to fall back to sleep?”

Mike swallows. “I didn’t.”

A silence passes between them. He announces, “Tonight will be different.” He gets up to fish out a few comics and sidles up beside Mike. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

They set to the task of reading. Soon Mike lays down. Will starts to get up to give him privacy to sleep, but is stopped by a hand and the privileged request to stay until Mike drifts off, which he does. Eventually Will sets down his own book and dares to shut the light out. He rolls onto his side so his back is to Mike, praying his consciousness doesn't slosh into the other's overnight.

Next morning he wakes to sunlight blasting through the forgotten open window. Unbelievably, Mike’s face is buried between his shoulders. Warm breath and knuckles where he has a grip on Will’s shirt. Melancholy acceptance of this welcome manifestation. Will carefully picks his book off the nightstand. Guess he won’t be moving for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game Credit: Dungeons & Dragons: Basic Rules Set I, 1983


	35. Max

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Note: This chapter was previously Ch.34-Max, which is now Ch.34-Will due to a mistake in chronological sequencing**

Saying bye to El sucked. They’d spent nearly every day over the past week together, playing games and having crawling races with Will in the backyard while Joyce was at work and Jonathan stayed locked in his room. A few times she and Will brought El by wheelchair on long walks, taking turns pushing. The rich green leaves rustling above, dust on the side of the road, birds dipping every which way made it almost seem like a normal summer. Max needed it. Every week since Mike came up with that dumb (but actually genius) idea to sweat the Mind Flayer into revealing itself in the sauna, things have grown darker, and being home-- especially when Neil’s there-- is unsafe. Her friends are good company, even if El's crying half the time. Max and Will had grown used to it. God, she's narrowly escaped death a million times, it makes total sense why she’s always exhausted and easily moved to tears! Anything from a program on TV to a leaf falling prematurely could set her off. On one rueful night, the sight of Billy’s pendant triggered it. Max now tucks into her shirt.

* * *

She and Lucas spent Thursday at the arcade; Dustin was on the hilltop talking to Suzie through Cerebro, and neither Mike nor Will had picked up the phone. It was a fun day, but when she’s around Lucas too much they get on each other’s nerves, and that’s precisely why Max calls Robin and skates to her house Friday morning.

Both of Robin’s parents are at work, so they’ve got the house to themselves. First thing her new friend shows off is the basement. A furnished room like Mike’s except entirely devoted to music, not lame fantasy games. A piano, some beat up guitars, a stand up bass and drum set, as well as several tarnished winds and battered, unnamable black cases leaning against the wall.

“Wow. Does your whole family play?” Max asks, still rosy cheeked from riding in the heat. She’s in awe of Robin and dying to hear her play.

“Everyone but my mom and sister. The drum set,” Robin points, “belonged to my oldest sister.”

“The, what’s it called? Hard-of-hearing one?” She figures you need partial hearing to play any instrument.

“Actually, no. She’s like, profoundly deaf. My dad taught her because she was so restless as a kid. She liked to feel the music. Took her years to learn how to really keep time.” Robin moves behind the drum set and sits on the stool, picking up two drumsticks lying across the bigger center drum. Fluidly and all at once she’s tapping, then pumping out a lively beat.

Max’s jaw drops. “You play _how_ many instruments?” 

Setting the drumsticks down she lists casually, “French horn, clarinet, piano, drums.” As if her talents are no big deal!

“You must be a genius or something.”

“Or something!” Robin laughs. “It’s only the French horn I play well, although to be honest, I could probably pick up anything if you gave me a day. What about you? Do you play anything?”

“Back in California my mom forced me into orchestra. I played violin.”

“What!” Robin guffaws. “No way, you?”

Max laughs. “I know! What I really wanted to play was guitar.”

“Rocker chick, I see?”

“I guess.” She steps close enough to tap the cymbals. “In California one of my friends played drums. She was incredible, like, gonna-be-famous-someday good. We’d talked about starting a band, how I’d play guitar and we’d both sing, which by the way I am _not_ good at, but my mom wanted me to keep studying violin. Then we moved and the whole dream fell apart.”

“That sucks,” Robin groans, standing up and holding out the sticks. “Here, come on.”

“What?”

“Try the drums.”

“I don’t--”

“Doesn’t matter. Just bang around.”

It sounds awful, nothing like her old friend or those guys on MTV. They make it look simple! After a minute Robin grabs another set of sticks and comes around, naming each individual drum and cymbal-- crash, hi-hats, high medium and floor toms-- and shows her a little baby beat. Max practices it until she can keep time on her own, but when Robin encourages her to add in the bass pedal, it tumbles into a stuttering mess.

They end up at the kitchen table eating sandwiches, drinking pop, and talking about their pasts. Max explains how skating started as a good reason to be outside away from Billy, especially if he had a girl over, and she'd ended up making friends and developing a passion for riding and flipping her board. She’d always been able to escape Billy in California. It was here, when they’d moved last fall, things shifted in the worst way. Their parents went to Chicago Valentine’s Day weekend, and it was snowing in Hawkins, so while Billy saw an opportunity to have a girl over, Max saw a chance to snuggle on the couch and watch movies. No way she would ruin her board in the snow, or risk hanging out with Lucas. At that time El still wasn’t allowed out, and besides, they hadn’t really talked. Billy had brought home huge bottles of liquor that night-- how he bought them underaged, Max didn’t want to know-- and bribed her out of the house using an enormous bottle of rum. Always orchestrating, manipulating his surroundings to make life easier. It’d been a scramble, she ended up sleeping at the house of a random girl from her class she barely knew.

Funny enough, the bottle of rum is still sealed in the back corner of her closet. Frankly she’d had zero interest in it, accepted it only as payment for the inconvenience Billy put her through. Recently she’s thought about opening it, but her memories of the first and only time she drank (with Billy, to gain his approval as a new step-sibling), in addition to her father’s history, kept her rightfully cautious. Maybe it’d be fun to try with the party before school starts? Robin and Steve have drank, they’d make sure no one got out of hand. But who is she kidding? Max can’t imagine them all drinking together, these so-called heroes that saved the world.

* * *

They ride into town on bike and skateboard. They’d intended to scope out jobs by mapping out which shops are still open and how many are accepting new employees. According to the news, there should be plenty of jobs available, and the displaced employees from now under-renovations Starcourt are being encouraged to take them. Problem is, Robin (and Steve, who claimed he had to help his dad today) have waited too long to jump. Spots have filled quickly at local shops and offices, and as they ride around their checklist grows spidery X’s. Although new places are developing in an effort to boost business and morale, they’re months away from opening. Only construction workers so far inside Family Video, which popped up beside the arcade.

Robin’s complaining and Max is thinking that riding out to Dustin’s hill for a sweaty hike and shimmering view might not be such a bad idea when they happen upon a tiny used goods store she swears wasn’t here before. Through the gritty glass front the girls see bags and piles crammed near the door, like someone dropped them in and left, and it seems there’s only one person handling business-- a harried older women whose grey hair is twisted into an enviously long braid. She buzzes about, creating stacks and opening bags, giving Max an image of what it must have been like during wartime. Women joining the workforce, hustling, rationing out food, clothes, whatever, just like this woman is doing. Is she expecting an influx of customers? A month ago this town was full of superficial women spending their husbands’ money, showing off the hottest looks from the mall. Why would they need to shop here?

Robin elbows her. “Look.” A sign taped on the inside of the window reads: _Volunteers wanted._ Contradictorily it’s taped beside a capital letter sign CLOSED. “Should we see if she needs help?”

Max shrugs, “We’ve got nothing better to do.”

* * *

Her name is Lenore. On July Fourth she lost her business partner and her oldest son. She can’t afford to take on new employees just yet, but donations have been accumulating over the past month as the homes of the dead are cleaned out. Disadvantaged neighbors have begun to swoop in for items they’re finally admitting they can no longer afford because the family’s breadwinner died or they’ve taken in an orphaned child. Who wishes to admit complete defeat, or go from shopping at the Gap to wearing an old lady’s threadbare nightgown? Practically no one. However, Lenore explains, brushing loose strands of hair out of her kindly weathered face, with back to school season drawing closer, widowed parents are coming to terms. Either seek help and change their lifestyle, or cause their children greater suffering. That’s why business is temporarily on pause. With this sudden influx she needs help sorting, especially school supplies and backpacks, anything that can be given to families at little to no cost.

Max thinks of Mrs. Wheeler and how, if she hadn’t taken Holly and left town, she might be here now dropping off Nancy’s things, or grabbing fall clothes for Mike since the mall is closed and funeral costs add up. Has she even looked through Nancy’s things? Neil hasn’t dared to enter Billy’s room, and Max’s mother knows not to suggest cleaning out the space. It needs to be done sometime, though. Death is like divorce, except cleaner. Black and white, no grey muck of fighting adults or estranged parents. Death is one and done, final sale, no returns. Like her dad had to take all his things, so should Neil and Mrs. Wheeler take the belongings of their dead children. Pass them on to someone in need.

Lenore recognizes Robin from the front row of that public mass and extends sympathy to Max. She read about the Hargroves’ in the papers. _Survivors. Heroes._ Words the party, aside from Dustin, are reluctant to accept. Max feels horrible that so many strangers lost lives on account of some stupid breach in reality. Why couldn’t the government actually give a shit about its people? It’d be nice to come right out and say that, shout about the injustice on the roof of the town's tallest building, but she vowed not to put anyone in danger, ever again. Her mouth is staying shut.

Max falls quiet as they work. She sorts donations into piles: men and women’s clothing, shoes, items for the food pantry tucked in back. Robin and Lenore tackle school stuff, chatting comfortably as they organize piles to be gifted to families in a small box or bag. Naturally, the shop will lose revenue over the next month, but Lenore says it’s important to give certain allocated resources for free.

If only everyone had her compassion-- including Max herself.


	36. Joyce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “Unchained melody”, Righteous Brothers, 1965  
> [Spotify link in work summary]

She’s in the bathroom when El wakes up and calls her name in a small, frightened voice. “Just a second, sweetheart!” she calls back, patting her face down with a towel. She’d woken not long ago, sticky with sweat from another amalgam of monsters and missed chances. She threw open the blinds and went straight to the faucet to drink.

The double queen bed room has playful purple brushstroke patterned blankets and pastel blue sheets, making a nest around El. City sun drenches her and the space surrounding, highlighting the gold in her messy hair, a sort of halo marking her as an angel, which she most certainly is. Joyce smiles and goes to her, kisses her forehead. El scrubs her face with the heels of her hands and returns the smile with irresistibly sleepy sincerity. Although affection has become routine, each maternal touch freshly delights El and, in turn, rewards Joyce, who settles beside her on the bed. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good.”

“No nightmares?”

El shakes her head.

“What a relief!" Since the pain medication ran out they've struggled, and with Thursday’s flash-back panicked plane ride and her apprehension about yesterday’s consultation appointment, Joyce worried El would never get a restful night. It was the echoing effects of trauma and subsequent post-appointment relief, rather than Will's proximity, that finally exhausted her. “When was the last time you had a no-nightmare night?”

El signs, “I don’t know,” a simple shake of the head and a tap on the temple. “But,” she says, “I’m happy.”

During the flight, after her violent flashback of Papa’s machines had subsided and people turned back to their books and flight friendly vodkas, Joyce busied El by playing a game: _you have one minute to write down the English words for as many signs as you know, and then teach them to me._ She expected to see the blue magic marker Will gave her flying across the notepad, but in sixty seconds she’d written only fifteen words, each letter produced so painstakingly Joyce wondered if El is right handed instead of left. Joyce knew El was behind, but this? What had Hopper spent a year doing? Once El began to sign those words, however, Joyce’s concerns about her unstimulated intellect vanished. _This is what she’s supposed to be learning_ , she thought. Possibilities popped up in Joyce’s head. Over the past month Robin has taught El more than enough to grow a bud of confidence on an American Sign Language stem and, if fostered properly, that bud could flower, petals of math and science, history and art, by learning the evidently exciting content signs first. If Robin formally tutors El, Sam’s help can compensate her, especially for boring rote memory stuff like multiplication tables.

El asks, “How did you sleep?”

“Not great,” she answers honestly, appreciating the moment and warm sun on her face.

“Sorry. Maybe breakfast will help?”

“Oh, I could eat a horse I’m so hungry!” Joyce laughs at El’s surprise and explains about idioms, then says, "Let’s order a big room service breakfast, and while we eat we can pick a place to visit today. Do you still have the list we started last night?”

She nods, rolling over to grab a notepad off the floor by her bed. The stump raises in the air like a dorsal fin, and Joyce remembers how impressed yesterday’s chalk-covered doctor was by her body awareness. Seeing her regain balance and proudly brandish the list scribbled in a second grader’s hand, Joyce is impressed, too. Last night Joyce gave El an impromptu lesson by copying down on beautifully adorned letterhead the names of potential adventures listed in the hotel’s wonderful sightseeing catalogue. _Central Park, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Statue of Liberty_. Together they pronounced each slowly, reviewing syllables and sounds. _C often makes an S sound. T-Y at the end of a word usually sounds like ‘tea’._ Places Joyce visited when she was around El’s age, on a family trip to New York. In a million years she would never have imagined she’d be here again, not with her sister and parents, but with a feral child in need of an ocean’s worth of love.

Later, once their trays are picked clean and set outside to be collected, Joyce washes her hands and sits on the ottomon across from El, relaxed in the armchair. She unwraps El’s stump as the girl flips through the catalogue on her lap. Carefully, like applying sunscreen to her kindergarten and toddler’s faces on a day trip to Lake Michigan, years ago, Joyce massages El’s tender skin, the little leg propped on her own small lap. The coloration is returning to a gradient of fleshy beiges, instead of the angry fuschias and bruised-fruit yellows of before, and the stump itself is slimmer. Joyce hopes her face never revealed how alarming the swollen amputated end was before. As she works she watches El’s expression, knowing by now she won’t always let on to pain. All green lights this morning as she reads her list cumbersomely, flipping through and occasionally turning the book around to point at words she needs Joyce to read. _Museum of Natural History, Washington Square Park, Times Square…_

* * *

Central Park is their starting point, and, if they still have energy tonight, a tour through twinkling Times Square. Joyce had to put on her big mom voice when El insisted she could go on crutches. She explained the wheelchair is best, since hot weather and uneven terrain are dangerous and will tire her quickly. Tomorrow, Joyce promised, they’ll visit a museum, and El can get around independently. At least in a museum Joyce doesn’t have to worry about her tripping, scraping her already nicked up skin, or tiring out in an area without seating.

Summer in the city calls flocks of people, skin and fashion of every variation. Many women with hair high as the Empire State building, like Karen’s used to be, and many others with springy natural curls. El absorbs everything, firing on all cylinders. Her chin tips up and she smells the air, fresher the further in they walk. Her head swivels, eyes flicking onto each new thing: a singing bird, pigeons beating into the air, people speaking in another language passing by with a great big hairy dog. Part of New York’s beauty is its anonymity. There are glances at El's wrapped stump-- prominently displayed on account of her wearing shorts-- but nothing more, and she is unbothered, busied by lush trees where squirrels and birds titter and dance.

Finally they come along the pedestrian esplanade near the Central Park Mall, a long paved stretch lined with benches on either side, where artists and vendors prop up tables, easels, and open instrument cases, offering their art for cash. They haven’t gone more than a tenth of a mile when suddenly El calls her son’s name, and Joyce jumps. “Will? Where?” She points to a long table governed by a mysterious dark-skinned woman on a rickety wooden chair, where thick incense smoke folds into the hot, sticky air, giving Joyce a heady blast back to one of her girlfriends’ college apartment, a worldly little pothead paradise in Indianapolis.

“Will,” El says again. “I feel him.”

“He isn’t _here_ , is he?” Joyce leans around nervously to read her face.

“No. Not here. But look!” El wheels herself closer to the table and Joyce, handlebars slipping out from under her palms, follows curiously, tempering her embarrassment. Of course Will hasn’t teleported to New York!

The woman is beautifully weathered, with thick greying locks detailed by beads and tiny shells wrapped on top of her head and supported by a colorful band. Behind her wide-rimmed glasses are hooded eyes, and when she speaks warmly to El it’s an accent Joyce can’t place. “What called you over, hm?”

El’s eyes flicker over each raw gem and handcrafted piece: rings and bracelets of softly hammered metal, intricately woven bands of leather and vibrant threads, wooden beaded jewelry of varying sizes hung on twines of different lengths, painted or engraved with sigils or itsy bitsy animals, and dream catchers dangling from their own special stand. These enrapture her.

“Ah,” the vendor says, “dream catchers. You are a dreamer?”

El shakes her head. “My brother. He’s at home.”

“Is he having trouble with his dreams, or seeking peace with a problem?” The woman winks at Joyce. _Hidden collective of motherhood_.

“He controls dreams,” El responds, studying a particularly adorned dreamcatcher, many fluffy feathers and long leather strands of beads between. Her hands lifts. “Can I?”

The woman holds her palms open. Joyce notices a blurry tattoo on the heel of one palm. “Your brother needs something. See what it is.”

As El’s fingertips play across feathers and sinewy webs, Joyce is inspired. She touches one of the folded scarves and asks, “Do you make these all yourself?”

A slow blink suffices as a no. “My husband. We come here summers to share from the midwest.”

“Really? We’re visiting from Indiana.”

Her wide smile shows two missing teeth off the side of the top jaw. “And what’s here in New York for you and your daughter that isn’t for your son?”

El perks up at _daughter_ , turns slightly to catch Joyce’s answer. “There was a terrible accident this summer. We came here because of her leg. We wanted to get top care, and decided to make it a mommy daughter trip.” _Mommy._ Lame, neither of her boys ever called her Mommy, so why refer to herself as such? It’s a happy mistake; El beams proudly at this thrilling confirmation.

She chuckles. “Making the most of a hard time, and still you remember your other parts. The brother, he stayed back home all alone?”

“With his best friend,” El says, lifting a dreamcatcher off the display. The bent wood is wrapped in thin leather, its sinew webbing a sort of geometric spiral, recalling a drawing Scott Clarke showed her during July’s _magnit_ lesson. She remembers Alexei and wants to cry.

“Lucky him, hm? Best friends are hard to come by.” Nodding to the piece El chose, “Your brother, he controls his dreams, you say? Lucid dreams?”

“Yes.”

“Then I believe you should take this instead.” She fishes into a cloth pouch at her hip and extracts a quarter size polished stone. “Shamanic dream quartz. If he is as you say, its uses will be reveal themselves soon enough.”

* * *

That night they catch up with Will and Mike. He sounds infinitely better than he did the night of Nancy’s funeral, and even the night of El’s welcome home party, disproving Jonathan’s concerns about rejection; Joyce’s intuition tells her Mike _does_ reciprocate what Will feels, or would if given the chance. It’s hard to say goodbye to them, and harder to get El to hang up. When she does, Joyce finally calls home. Jonathan answers on the fifth ring. During their conversation he tells her unexpectedly and in a rather childlike way, “I miss you, Mom.”

Her heart breaks. “Oh, honey, we’ll be home soon enough.”

He clears his throat. “What day is it?”

“Saturday."

“Time,” he sighs. “It’s going by so slowly.”

The wording strums up a song in the back of her mind. Setting the needle down on ‘Unchained Melody’ was one of Bob’s favorite pastimes on nights when it was just the two of them and a bottle of her favorite red.

_Woah, my love, my darlin’..._

He’d take her hands and coax her to the middle of the living room (which he playfully referred to as their personal ballroom floor) and sing in his terrific voice. _Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me. I’ll be comin’ home, wait for me!_

She had waited long enough for a man like Bob: respectful, thoughtful, funny, and above all else, humble. Although his flattery was hard to accept at times, she appreciated his adoration. Sometimes she even felt deserving of the way he treated her. Then she lost him. He isn’t coming home, and the chances of her finding another man like him are next to none. Before him it was Lonnie, who crushed her esteem and hurt her boys. That mean son of a bitch realized they were growing into individuals with interests and intellects diverging from the image he wanted to mold them into, and he screamed and stomped, tried to beat it out of them. Ultimately Joyce stomped and shouted him out of their lives, hopefully forever. 

After Bob it was Jim. There had been a moment she thought they could happen, but having survived what he did, she saw his stability, patience, and respect waver increasingly until the unpredictable end. Another man digging his heels in, resisting change and refusing to deal. Another Lonnie, boasting authority and aggression, two futile parenting approaches-- a lesson Joyce had failed to teach Jim. Fostering, she thinks, is a good way to describe _her_ parenting style. Notice their passions, encourage them to develop, boost them onto the next step, and above all else love them until they learn to love themselves. El, this brilliant gift of a girl, was more than Jim’s charge. She was his second chance and he squandered it, misdirecting Mike in the process and reaffirming El’s worth as directly correlated to her acting as a weapon, keeping her isolated and intellectually underfed on the pretense of protection, allowing her out at only crucial times when the powers he vowed to protect could be used.

It was wrong of him to hide her. El is ready to sponge up the world with big brown saucer eyes, as Will once was, and Joyce is honored to be hers. She’s grateful Jim gave her this, at least. That he trusted her enough. A compliment she’ll accept, unlike his crude persuances. Maybe in another lifetime he and El both could have been hers, they might have created a big family, but his softness had been sapped and she could not help him in the way he believed he needed her. She isn’t a conquest.

Yet the loneliness of her adulthood is unbearable at times, causing her to leans too much on her children. Regardless of the benefits it gives them by nature of her undivided attention, there should be firmer boundaries. Although, glancing at El, who is dutifully massaging her own stump tonight, Joyce understands it’s impossible. Vicissitude has made boundaries loose in the Byers' family. At fourteen, Will still shares Mom's bed on bad nights. At fourteen, El regresses to a giddy toddler in a mother’s presence. At eighteen, Jonathan is home alone, a thousand miles away, sitting with the same grief she suffered as an adult losing Bob. He is too young to know that pain. She wants to tell him she understands, but he isn’t fit to hear it, not over the phone.

“Jonathan,” she says at last, “I love you so much, and I miss you like crazy, okay? You just keep occupying yourself as best you can and we’ll be home before you know it.” He’s quiet, breathing slow into the line. “And, I know you don’t want to hear it, but it's alright to reach out to other kids from your school. Check in and see how they’re doing, you know? I’m sure there’s other kids who love The Talking Heads as much as you.”

There’s a notable silence. Then, comparable to El’s frightened wake up call this morning, he says, “Mom?”

Joyce, already greatly disturbed by their distance, wants nothing more than to hold her son like she did the day of Lonnie’s failed hunting lesson. _A bunny_ , he’d sobbed against her. _A little bunny_. She braces herself. “Yes, honey?”

“I messed up.”

Her broken heart sinks into her stomach, a sensation she wishes weren’t familiar. “Please, sweetie, try to remind yourself it wasn’t your fault. There was no way you could have known. None of us knew! And none of us could have saved her. We were outmatched.” El looks over, and Joyce wishes she hadn't brought it up.

“I’m not talking about Nancy," Jonathan clarifies, voice floating. "There’s something else, but… I’d rather tell you in person.”


	37. Robin

Sunday morning Robin meets Max at Hawkins Used Goods. The sign still reads CLOSED. Although Lenore asked the girls not to come by today, they decided to drop in anyhow because the store reopens tomorrow, so there must be stuff to do! She tries the door first-- locked-- then shields her eyes and squints inside. No sign of human life. Worrying she might have missed Max, she knocks again. Lenore, carrying a mug, enters from the back food pantry; an area with stocked shelves in a small kitchenette. “Welcome, welcome,” she laughs, “we’ve been expecting you.”

“Oh, Max is here?”

She nods, locking the door once Robin enters. Her hair is pinned in a low bun by two wooden sticks topped with intricately carved cranes. “We’re having tea, but after that you two  must be on your way. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

Robin follows her back to the pantry. “If _we_ can’t be here today, then why are you?”

Lenore sips from the cracked green 'best grandmother' mug. “Both of you are quite direct! Nothing slips past.” She opens a door on the wall adjacent to the sink, narrowly fixed at the end of rows of shelved canned goods. Through the door is a surprisingly spacious room occupied by a long rectangular table, two dozen mismatched chairs, and a ponderous redhead studying some pamphlet. Max is sitting at the head of the table by a hat-size wicker basket and a steaming mug. The floor is covered in faded peach carpet, treaded bare in some areas. A stale coffee smell permeates, even though the small window facing the alley between storefronts is open. Large wooden signs hang on the wall, each bearing a different sentiment. _You are loved_. _One Day At A Time. But for the Grace of God go I…_ One sign is simply a painted triangle inside a circle. Mysterious! Nearby, same wall as the window, a pair of posters announce: THE TWELVE STEPS, THE TWELVE TRADITIONS. Twelve numbered items follow. On the opposite wall is a different poster entirely. A blue circle with two white hands at the bottom, and a stick figure man at the top, presumably walking toward those loving hands.

“What is all this?”

“It’s the meeting space,” Lenore answers. “There’ll be A.A. at noon, and The Compassionate Friends--” she points to the blue logo-- “at three o’clock. Then I’ll be heading home to start cooking. Family dinner every Sunday night with my husband and daughter.”

“Didn’t you say you also have another son?” Robin inquires.

“He’s grown up,” Max says, finally turning in her chair and setting the pamphlet down. Robin catches the heading:  _ Only you can decide.  _ “He lives in… Champaign, right?”

“Correct. You’ve got a lovely memory, dear.”

“Unfortunately,” she grumbles.

“Where’d you get that?”

Max points. There’s a low bookshelf under the big STEPS poster, filled with blue spined books, and a bunch of others, along with a little stand of pamphlets. Another look at the TWELVE STEPS poster:

_ 1\. Admitted we were powerless over alcohol-- that our lives had become unmanageable. _

“Oh, right,” she says when it clicks. Good thing she didn't ask what A.A. stands for.

“Come,” Lenore waves Robin to sit beside Max. She takes a seat on the other side and sips her tea. “My partner Molly was a satisfied customer of Alcoholics Anonymous for twenty-two years, until her death. Why she was gullible enough to attend that show at the mall, I’ll never know.” Robin and Max exchange a guilty glance. “And I’ve stopped asking. It’s something we’re discussing in the weekly Compassionate Friends group.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a group for bereaved parents,” Max informs.

“Yes. We’ve held those meetings here monthly since 1980. It was always a chapter leader who hosted them, because Molly and I didn’t need such a group. Now, sadly, I do. We’re holding meetings once a week because,” she gestures, “this is our new reality.”

“Wow,” is all Robin can say.

“Tell her what Molly said,” Max prompts Lenore, “when you guys set up the shop.”

“Ah. You see, we weren’t searching for a large space, but Molly got inspired here. Already sober at that point, she wanted to use the extra space back here as a place of healing. Insisted it, really. It would be a lot of work, I warned her, coordinating groups and times, but she stood her ground. Said, ‘If we’ve all this space and only use it to turn profit, then we’re not who we say we are. Women of God? No’.” Lenore pauses in memory. “She said our primary purpose was to help the people.”

“Wow,” Robin says again. She reaches out for the pamphlet.

“I’m tempted to leave one of these lying around the house. Problem is, if Neil sees it he’ll flip. He’ll take it as an attack and probably blame my mom, or me, and he already does that enough so why bother?”

“It is a risk,” Lenore says reasonably. “No wonder you’ve wanted to be out of the house. You know, I’ve been trying to bring Al-Anon here-- I’ll have to speak with the chair before the nooner,” she says to herself, “I think his wife does service for that program.”

The girls look at each other, totally lost. Lenore pats Max’s hand. “You’ve heard of Al-Anon?” She shakes her head and the woman tuts. “Shame. Young people especially need it. Same program as A.A., same twelve steps, except Al-Anon is for the family and loved ones of alcoholics. We need healing as much as they do.”

Max nods thoughtfully and discreetly pulls her hand away.

* * *

Robin bikes to Steve’s house Tuesday around noon, hoping there’s no reason to be worried that the guy who not-so-jokingly asked her when he could move into her brother’s old room on Sunday hasn't returned her call from last night. Why shouldn’t she worry? It’s not like he enjoys being home any more than Max does. At Sunday night dinner he’d casually told her parents about how his dad is punishing him (“for existing”) since he’s essentially given up on being hired anywhere. Mr. Harrington has him doing menial stuff all over the house, most of which he’s screwed up one way or another. Robin had used the sign  _ slip-mind  _ several times when interpreting for her mother, not because she thinks Steve is dumb, like everyone else seems to, but because things are literally slipping his mind constantly. Honestly, the more he says  _ there’s something seriously wrong with me _ , the more she’s convinced there is. It wouldn’t be his fault, though. He’s been beaten, multiple head traumas, had the bones around his eye fractured and forgotten about. How can she get him to understand it’s not a personal defect? Telling El the same thing is easy because she listens! She trusts Robin. Boys stubbornly refuse to trust women (if she were a guy he’d already be like  _ you’re right! _ ), so her saying he’s not a loser again and again hasn’t helped, and neither has  _ you’re fine _ . He isn’t, and as she glides into the driveway, sweaty from riding under the high sun, she’s defeated by the absence of his car.

“Ugh!” She complains. “Where the hell are you?” She sets her bike on the lawn and walks to the front door, wondering what state Mrs. Harrington is in. There’s no answer. She’s impatient to see if Steve is alright and tries the door handle. Unlocked! She lets herself in with a mannerly, “Hello?”

Laughter trickles through open windows like champagne bubbles from the back of the house. She closes the door behind her and proceeds down the hall. No one is in the living room, den, or kitchen, but a breeze flows through the open patio door. Stealthily she presses up against the kitchen wall and peers out, hidden. Half a dozen women donning impeccably shaved legs languish on long and short patio chairs, some holding glasses of white wine while others fizzle giddily on mother’s little helpers, cigarettes burning between their lacquered fingers. Don’t these women have kids? Lives? Wouldn’t it be funny if Robin had a couple A.A. pamphlets to drop onto the counter? They come in to pop another bottle and boom,  _ Jane, do you think I’m an alcoholic? _

Robin’s eyes wander, appreciating the beauty of swimsuits and shorts and low necklines, sweat and tanning oil glistening right at the top of the chest. A particularly bronzed woman says, “I thought he was out job hunting?”

“He was,” says the owner of the breasts she was ogling through the screen, “and he needs to keep going. I have no clue what's gotten into him lately.”

_ Oh God _ , Robin facepalms. She’d been ogling Mrs. Harrington! If Steve could show up already so they can get the hell out of here, that’d be great! Today's all about getting him a job-- Lenore's neighbor happens to be the owner of Hawkins tiny town theatre, and he’s looking to hire. He’s reopening while Starcourt is under repair. Steve could work the ticket booth. It’d be perfect, and that's exactly what she said in the message left on his answering machine last night.

“He hardly smiles anymore,” Mrs. Harrington continues. “So clumsy and distracted, too. He’s a good boy, but we can’t have him around the house much longer.”

“It’s bad enough he wasn’t accepted into college,” interjects a brunette, “but at least he was working. Now he’s lazing around expecting Daddy to front the bills?” Her eyeshadow is a watermelon blend of pink and neon green, bright blue eyes blinking below thick mascara lashes. Why put in the effort to look like that if you’re sitting next to this lady’s pool in the miserable summer sun?

Mrs. Harrington re-crosses her legs and wiggles her painted toes. “That’s just it. We’re going to give him a deadline. If you don’t find work by such-and-such date, you’re kicked out.”

“Makes sense,” the brunette affirms.

Bronze legs says, “He’s a man now, he shouldn’t be relying on you at all.”

“Completely agree,” adds a new voice. “Shame about Andrew, really. He was genuinely interested in the company. It was awfully sweet.”

“It was,” agree the ladies in harmony, and this includes Mrs. Harrington, who sighs faintly.  “I wish I knew what to say to fix Steven.”

_ Fix _ him? He doesn’t need to be fixed! This ‘well-respected mother’ has done nothing to help him, she didn’t even visit him in the hospital! It’s all Robin can do not to storm onto the patio and curse her out, and who the hell is this Andrew guy?

Behind her, at the front of the house, a door briskly swings open and shut. Robin jumps, afraid of being caught snooping again. Then she realizes-- Steve! She slips across the kitchen and peeks into the hall. Yes! He’s at the front door fumbling with keys and muttering to himself. She hisses his name and runs to him, heart racing from fear and rage and defensive energy. She crashes into him, wraps her arms around his waist and hugs herself to him tight enough to feel his heartbeat. “Where were you!”

After the initial shock he pulls her in. “I was at the store. What are you even doing here?” He smells like clean laundry and shampoo, but it’s a front like everything else around him, and maybe she’s the only person who knows. Did Nancy? Who was he to her? A hot jock? Class clown? Definitely not an independent, reliable guy like Jonathan, intelligent and opinionated of his own accord.

“You didn’t answer my call,” she complains into his shoulder.

“Oh, sorry. I heard your message, I just, uh, you know--” she pulls away, her dispirited expression matching his-- “I forgot.”

* * *

After dinner the three of them flop onto Robin’s bed. Steve is laying on his back, watching the orange lava bubbles bloat upside down, reveling in his victory. “Can you believe it? Old man hired me. Me! The kid responsible for doing that graffiti shit. I got it! Probably cause I was the only one to help clean it up. Karma, am I right?”

Max shakes her head in confusion. “Graffiti?” She’s laying on her stomach next to Robin, hugging a pillow. 

“Yeah, what are you talking about?” Robin asks.

Steve treats them to a colorful appendix to the larger story of monsters and mayhem. This bit is about how he was laid out by Jonathan Byers, and while she’s heard the story before, she swears she’s never heard this bit. “You know,” he reflects, “I used to think it was about Nance, but it wasn’t. Will had just died and there I was calling him queer, badmouthing his mom-- it was super shitty of me. God I’m a shitty person."

“You’re not a shitty person.” This comes from Max. “Since I met you last year you’ve always been willing to help us. Hello, you used yourself as bait for the demodogs! Just because you did shitty things doesn’t mean that’s who you are.”

“Try telling my dad that.” He scrambles up when he sees the playful look on their faces. “Do not,” he jabs a finger, “try telling my dad that. Got it?”

“Okay, okay!” Robin laughs, leaning against her pillows, holding a smushed teddy bear. “We won’t tell him. But we are going to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“You mean a party?” Max sits up and nudges Steve over. Everyone's legs touch and overlap, it’s a sweaty mess-- they should have hung out in the backyard like Mom suggested-- but the closeness is nice. Proof of a fellowship between unlikely adventurers.

“Precisely. We are going to throw a party.”

Steve groans. “No way. The last time I was at a party I had one of those attacks, and I’m not doing that again.”

“You literally had a panic attack tonight before dinner,” Max points out. “Ravena made you drink that glass of water and put your head between your knees? Panic attacks strike whenever they want, it’s just part of the fun.”

“Ha ha,” he says sarcastically.

“Fear not, dingus! This won’t be like those lame parties where Hawkins High bitches and dudes pathetically court each other for the base purpose of getting laid. Our party will have everything those assholes are missing out on.”

“Games,” Max suggests, listing on her fingers.

“Costumes.”

“No dancing.”

“What?” She cocks her head. “ _ Yes _ dancing! My music taste is impeccable.”

“This is a great idea. Honestly!” Max replies to Steve’s quizzical look. “The more distractions the better. Neil’s  just getting worse. I’m surprised he hasn’t had a heart attack yet from all the screaming. His face turns beet red and this vein pops out like--” she draws it along her forehead.

“Jesus,” Steve grimaces. “What is it about dads being complete dickheads? Rob, you’re the only person I know whose dad is worth something.”

“I thought yours  _ is _ worth something,” Max teases. Steve pushes her shoulder and she shoves back.

“So!” Robin claps loudly to refocus them. “When are we having this party?”

“Well, I start work on Thursday, and my shift is like three to eleven, so--”

“Tomorrow.”

Max turns to Robin curiously. “Can we have it here? Your mom clearly won’t mind us playing music at night.”

“No, but my dad will.” She makes her teddy dance on her lap as she thinks.

“Sucks El won’t be able to come.”

“We’ll just have another party once she gets home,” Steve says. “We gotta celebrate her new leg, right?”

“New leg,” Max echoes. “Surreal.”

“What about Mike’s basement?” Robin poses.

Max perks up. “Yes! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Uh, newsflash,” Steve says. “Don’t you remember Mike saying he’s in trouble? How are we gonna convince him to have a party in his basement when he’s already like, the black cow of the family?”

Max squints. “You mean black sheep?”

“Sheep, cow, whatever. We shouldn’t do anything to make life worse for him cause believe me, I get how it feels.”

Robin notices a pattern. If it’s something related to his children, it’s stored in the memory bank. Anything else is subject to slip away. “You’re right,” she agrees. “But I’m pretty sure it was Mrs. Wheeler who was upset, right? Isn’t Mike alone with his dad now?”

Max nods. “Until the end of summer. Dustin says the guy is useless, and no one’s ever contested it, so I can’t imagine why he would care. I’ll talk to Lucas tonight. He’ll know what to say to Mike.”

“Speaking of Dustin,” Robin looks at Steve, “are we going to have to keep the peace between you two kiddies?”

Max’s eyes widen. “Oh, right. Dustin swears you bailed on El’s welcome home party because of what a douchebag he’s been.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Please, I’m not gonna  _ not _ see El just cause Dustin’s totally annoying. You’re all annoying, for the record,” he levels with her, “but I can handle it. Besides,” he adds, “I am Butterfingers, Peabrain and Dickhead, and I should man up.”

“Wait, Dusin told you to man up? God, that’s something Neil or Billy would say. Don’t listen to him. Seriously! Manning up just turns boys into unfeeling bastards, and I actually like that you give a shit.”

“Quite a redeeming quality,” Robin confirms. She puts a hand on each of their shoulders. “Look, I know I said this won’t be like those lame parties, because it won’t, but how about we get a bottle of champagne?”

“Rob, are you crazy?”

“It’s a celebration!”

“It’s a bad idea, is what it is. Right, Max?”

“To be honest,” she says shyly, “I’ve been wondering what drinking is like. I mean, drinking casually with friends. Billy got me drunk once and I hated it, but I've been looking at this bottle of rum he gave me ages ago and thinking, you know, since summer’s almost over and I have actual friends to try it with, maybe it’d be cool?” When she doesn’t receive an immediate response, her mouth makes a little _o_ and she quickly shakes her head. “Nevermind. It’s a stupid idea. I'm just contradicting everything we talked about on Sunday with Lenore and--”

“If we’re together, we’re safe. Why not?”

“We’re never actually safe, Rob. And you realize that if they drink, we’re gonna be stuck babysitting? And we could get in like, so much trouble with Mrs. Byers if she finds out we got Will drunk.”

"Who said anything about drunk!"

“Robin, he's right. If we drink at our party we’ll be like everyone else, and we’re not like everyone else. We’re the only survivors of the Starcourt explosion. We’re supposed to be role models or something.” She looks at them, embarrassed. “Just forget I mentioned it, okay?"

“Okay,” Steve says.

“Chill, Max! We’re kids, not heroes. And we’re human. Humans contradict themselves! No one’s pressuring you to drink, but you seem curious, and that's totally natural.” Robin raises an invisible glass. “To being a kid again.”

Hesitantly Max raises her own invisible glass, but Steve doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Program Resource: https://www.aa.org (Founded 1939)  
> Program Resource: https://al-anon.org (Founded 1951)  
> Program Resource: https://www.compassionatefriends.org (Founded 1978)


	38. Mike

Lunch on Tuesday is mac and cheese eaten out of the pot, mindlessly clinking spoons sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV. Once they’ve offered each other the last bite he gets up to ditch the sticky pot into the sink. He runs water into it so it’s easier to clean (another trick Will showed him), and thinks how shocked Mom would be to see him independently running the house. Interdependently, rather, since it’s Will teaching him the things she never did. Until Nancy’s death there was no reason to. He and his sister's chores were simple. Clean their rooms, help with garbage, and Holly, and put away their already folded laundry. The rest was taken care of by marvelous stay at home Mom.

Originally he’d thought having Will stay a whole week was a bad idea. This is the longest they’ve ever spent together. He’s waiting for the moment they snap, totally sick of each other, but day five is surprisingly better than day one. An amplified connection between them means much is understood without words. Entire activities enjoyed in meaningful silence. With El, her fascination meant he always had to be on. He anxiously filled her silences, trying to impress, teach, entertain. He was her world, and she was his. A dream of affection manifested after years of oversight. Will isn’t a dream. He’s real, here since the start-- kindergarten, how small! Around Will, Mike is rested. His belly is full and his body is happy about riding bikes down winding roads. His chest is lighter because of video game banter and writing sessions next to Will as he draws in a trance, while the radio plays whatever-- they’re so pacified by each other’s presence they don’t care. Once he dreamed of living this life with El. Now he cannot imagine it with anyone else.

Returning to the living room Mike sees him getting up to leave. Will opens the back door and steps into the carport. A gust of hot air shoves it open all the way, catching on its hinges. Mike runs and finds Will standing at the edge of the line between shade and sun, staring out at the driveway. Birds trill in the waving trees and his green eyes drift upward, transparent in this light, all stitches of gold banished by the chromatic sunny sky. Mike steps in front of him and waves. No reaction. Calling his name evokes nothing. Placing a cautious hand on his shoulder evokes nothing. When Will spaced out on Friday, touching him worked. Why is this not working? What is he staring at, what does he see that Mike can’t? His heart punches against his chest. The only time Mike failed to rouse his friend from an episode was when the Mind Flayer possessed Will on the school field. Shit, he should have known his space-out on Friday wasn’t a fluke, hadn’t been triggered by hunger like Mike wanted to believe. It was a sign of danger. Danger is coming again. Episodes are augers; Will’s temperament forecasts the end of their world.

A flood of panic. Both hands on Will’s shoulders now. “Wake up. Wake up!” Mike is already breathless, a poorly functioning scout who should be used to stress by now. A handful of placated people in this town actually consider him a hero and he can’t even breathe, a pathetic fucking excuse for a palladin. He doesn’t fight-- he fails.

“Will!” The hysteria in his voice is something he thought he’d never hear again, but shrinking pupils are now pinpricks, remote. Will is succumbing to possession again, vanishing before his eyes and Mike is worse than useless: he is in crisis alone.

No Mom.

No Dad.

No sister.

No nothing.

His ugly panting becomes a whine. “Please, fight-- I’m--” He gasps air. Death would be better than another mother’s despair because of his negligence. His mother’s screams are a sound chip seared into the tissue of his brain, and soon it’ll be Joyce breaking down. _I trusted you with him and you let this happen!_ Boy, driveway, tears of shame, wet brown eyes lit by desperation, and losing Will is worse, it is a death sentence, a challenge to be met by one answer. _Destroy yourself. If he dies you make sure you fucking die and make it worse than this, he never deserved your friendship, he never deserved your trust, you have to do something. Do something. Now!_

Mike shakes him so forcefully-- “Please, just wake up!”-- that Will’s jaw loosens and his lips part. Thinking of fairy tales and magic spells to bring back the dead, his trembling fingers find the sides of Will’s face, brushing the flesh of his pallid cheeks. He leans in, about to do something crazy, and just then a car blasts by, blaring music and cracking Mike open like an egg. One hard blow knocks the kissing idea loose, and he’s folded around Will sobbing, “Please, if you can hear me, I--”

A child laughs in the neighbor’s backyard. The creaking swing set _is how we met, I should tell him, it brought him back once before, I can turn this around,_ but he can’t remember the story, so he paws Will closer. Shoulder blades beneath flesh, ribs under muscle that wasn’t there this time last year. This is a human body growing and Mike finally finds the sentence. “If you can hear me, you’re safe. I’m right here," he tells Will, "and I love you, and I’ll wait as long as you need. Just, come back, okay? I don’t want to be here without you.”

Minutes pass and Mike forgets where he is, eyes shut tight against today’s newest horror. He startles when Will inhales and pulls away to look up at him, blinking foggily as if just waking. Mike’s legs almost give out from relief-- he clutches Will’s shoulders and pulls him in again.

Pushing in order to be let go, he gazes around, confused. “Why are we outside? Are you… crying?”

Wiping his eyes on his long sleeves, “You had another episode.”

“Oh.”

“Is he back?”

“No,” Will shakes his head. “He’s gone.”

“How often does it happen?”

Slowly he looks up. “Almost everyday.”

Without thinking, Mike slips his fingers between Will’s and walks him inside, downstairs. In the basement they sit leg to leg on the couch and only then does it strike him how natural it felt. He used to hold El’s hand like this all the time. He held Will’s hand this way once during a breakdown, because he needed Will inside his skin to take away the pain. How close can you be to another person? If you’re hurting? In love?

“Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes I wonder. What if when we killed him, we killed me, too?”

The notion chokes him up. Will already feels like shit, it’d be inconsiderate to start crying again. So he says, "We didn't," and stands up. “I’m gonna grab you a soda. That helped last time, right?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Just-- stay with me. Please, I’m not,” his breath catches, eyes unfocused. “I still don’t feel real.”

Immediately Mike returns to the couch, understanding the weight of his presence and taking Will’s hand again. “You are real.”

“How do you know? What if this is a dream, and you aren’t real either?”

“I’m real,” Mike declares, “and so are you. Real, okay? This isn’t some dream, or an allegory of a campaign, I promise. Here--” He shifts so his back is flat against the couch and puffs up, bringing Will’s hand to the top of his chest. “Do you feel that?” Through two layers of shirt he feels Will’s hand tense. “Hey, hey it’s okay. It’s just my heartbeat. Proof. I’m real, right? And if I’m real, you are too.” He tries a smile.

Will studies his own hand like a foreign object. He inhales deeply and nods. Then, the way El used to curl up beside him on the couch when Chief Hopper wasn’t home, Will pulls his legs up and rests against Mike’s side, stationing one hand flat over his heart.

If this were El, Mike would lay with him. It happened many times, watching TV or just talking; she said the buzz of his deepening voice soothed her, and would lay on his chest the whole afternoon. Her weight was assuring. Will’s probably would be, too. It isn’t fair to continue comparing them, or try to justify why these feelings for Will are overwhelming now. If you want to lay with someone, they are more than just your friend. Mike would never do this with Dustin or Lucas, and they’d never do it with him-- Will wouldn’t do this with them either, which means a lot.

In the shadow of another episode Mike realizes he can’t pretend anymore. No matter how weird or wrong it is, he has to accept it as fact: _I like my best friend._ He places both hands over Will’s. They stay like this until his dad comes home.

* * *

Lucas calls that night and leads with, “My girlfriend’s crazy.”

At the same time Mike says, “That’s not news,” Will says, “She’s actually really smart.”

They’re standing by the stairs in the basement, shoulders touching and heads bowed together to hear. He's a little jealous Will knows Max pretty well by now. Once El got home from the hospital Max had hung out with her and Will like every day. They invited Mike to come over, but he couldn’t stand up without dizziness and he couldn’t even think of Max without hearing Billy’s crucified screams.

“According to her,” Lucas explains, “the lady who owns Hawkins Used Goods helped Steve get a job at the movie theatre.”

“What?” Mike barks.

“They’ve been volunteering there I guess?”

“Girls are so weird."

“I think it’s cool,” Will says. “Kind of wish they’d invited me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Lucas asks him. “You seriously want to spend what’s left of summer working for _free_?”

“Why not? Our town needs help.”

“Our town is cursed. I can't wait to get out of here. If my parents don't want to move then I swear, the second I'm done with high school--”

“Just get to the point,” Mike says impatiently, annoyed Lucas interrupted his limited time with Will.

“Why? What are you two weirdos so busy doing that me and Dustin haven’t seen you all week?”

“Nothing!” Mike answers defensively.

“Sure, sure,” he intones suspiciously. “Well tomorrow we actually have something to do, alright? A party. Max and Robin are throwing one to celebrate Steve getting a job.”

Mike sucks his teeth.

“Cool,” Will says. “Where is it?”

“So here’s the thing-- and I’m not even gonna try to make it sound like it came from me. Max told me to ask you to ask your dad if we can have the party in your basement.”

His eyebrows raise in protest. “I’m not letting you guys turn our basement into some trashy teen movie just for a guy I don’t even like!”

“I’m not crazy about Steve either, but he did kinda save our asses last year. Mine more than once. The demodogs, Billy, the tunnels,” he lists.

“Max saved us from Billy.”

“Yeah, but who took the hits?”

“Whatever,” Mike grunts, “I don’t-- ow!” Will elbows Mike sharply.

“We hung out with Steve on Friday,” he points out frankly. “He’s our friend, and so are Robin and Max. If not for us, do it for them.”

“Wait, you guys hung out with Steve?”

“Yes,” Will says.

Mike reframes it: “He followed us home.”

“No, he offered us a ride, so we made him lunch.”

“Wow, okay," Lucas says conclusively. "We're coming over tomorrow night whether you like it or not, cause you guys clearly need the company to break your weird little bubble. Now go talk to your dad so he won’t care about us making noise.”

“But--”

“Hanging up now, byeee!”

* * *

He watches Will through the mirror the entire time they brush their teeth. Finally he blurts, “Are you feeling okay?”

Will drops his toothbrush into the cup sharply and rinses his mouth. “You don’t have to ask again and again."

“I’m just trying to be a good friend.” Embarrassed, Mike cups his hands and leans over.

Will wipes his face on a green hand towel. “You _are_ , Mike. You’re the best friend I could ever imagine, and that’s exactly why you can stop asking-- because you already know when I’m not okay.”

He straightens up, blushing. Will hands him the towel. “Well then you’re not. You’re not feeling okay.”

“No, I want to go to sleep.”

“So let’s sleep.” Self-consciously he wants to know if tonight will be different. No more pretending that falling asleep next to each other and waking up imprinted like flowers between pages of a book is accidental. 

“Okay, but I want to sleep on my own tonight.”

This unexpected change is a slap to the face. Mike passes Will and heads into his bedroom, where he busies himself tossing clothes in the hamper. Then he lowers himself onto the bed and leans against pillows, casually finding the page marked by his new placeholder. Will made it yesterday.

The door shuts. “Hey, Mike?”

He doesn’t dare look up from the blurry words or else he’ll cry again.

“You’re really hot,” Will says, taking sudden commanding Mike's attention. He flushes red and holds up his hands to clarify, “Temperature-wise! To sleep next to, I mean, especially in those long sleeve shirts I wish you wouldn’t wear! Mom always says if I’m anxious I need to make sure I’m physically cool, so that’s why I want to sleep alone. It’s not-- it’s not you.”

Mike, whose book slipped out of his hand and slid onto the floor, gives a forced laugh. “Of course. Yeah. No problem. Do whatever you have to, to feel better.”

“Thanks.” Will turns off the light by the door, leaving Mike’s dim nightstand light on, and tests the window to make sure it’s open all the way. He sets foot on the first wide plank of the ladder and stalls. “Mike?”

He sits up and shifts to see Will better. “Yeah?”

“Whatever you did earlier, it brought me back. It saved me.”


	39. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “Party All the Time”, Eddie Murphy, 1985  
> Song Credit: “Don’t Stop Me Now”, Queen, 1978  
> Song Credit: “Old Time Rock & Roll”, Bob Seger, 1978  
> [Spotify link in work summary]

He’s sitting backwards on the toilet lid, eyes closed praying she doesn’t mess this up. Scissors snipping through his hair remind him of spinning machines. Another reason he wants it to be over.

“Can I ask you something?”

“No. You need to stay focused.”

“Steve!”

“I’m serious, Rob. You should consider it like, the greatest compliment a guy could give that I’m even letting you touch my hair.”

She tugs at a long chunk and pauses, scissors hovering near his right ear. “Since when do I care about compliments from guys?” He laughs. “Exactly, I don’t. But, I do respect you, so I’ll focus now and ask my question later.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” She continues clipping. “And you better give me an honest answer.”

“Uh, definitely. When have I ever lied to you?” A dust of brown hair coats his arm and he shakes it out, causing her to screech. “Sorry, sorry! I forgot, can’t move.”

“How could you forget when you’re the one telling me to focus!”

“Yeah, _you_ focus,” he says reasonably. “I sit here looking pretty.”

She sighs. “You are truly impossible sometimes.”

Minutes later he’s neatly fashioning his damp hair in front of the mirror above her dresser, spritzing in cheap hairspray he doesn’t understand how she can possibly use. She’s sitting at her tiny desk under the open window poking through a basket of tapes-- including a bunch of her own mixtapes-- trying to decide on party music.

“Give us something to dance to you, you know?”

She turns in her chair to look at him in the mirror. “And what is dance music to The Hair?”

“Shit, I dunno, how about… Oh! Eddie Murphy.”

“No!”

Snapping the beat, he sings, “ _Girl, I can’t understand it-- why you want to hurt me? After all the things I’ve done for you._ ” As Robin complains, he dances across the room to her, where she covers her face to avoid looking at him. “ _I buy you champagne and roses, put diamonds on your fingers--_ ”

She laughs, “Stop!”

He creeps closer, in love with her laugh, and wiggles his hips absurdly. “ _My girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the tiiiiime!_ Come on Rob,” he says, “You know it’s a good one!”

“I’ll admit it’s dance music,” she says, lowering her hands to pull one foot onto the chair and hug her knee, “but Mr. Murphy is simply not up to our party standards.” Pulling him closer to her desk, “Look, I’ve got _The Works--_ ”

“Queen,” he nods. “El likes them because of--”

“Will, I know! Their first official hangout was watching Live Aid together. How cute is that?”

“It’s so freakin cute.” He sets that tape aside to start a pile and reaches across Robin to grab a Bob Seger mixtape. “Love me some ‘Night Moves’, let’s add that.”

“Get your armpit out of my face!”

“What? I’m clean.”

“Yeah, right,” she rolls her blue eyes, fishing for a tape with freshly painted black nails. “There’s a good track on this one, and definitely _this_.”

“The Clash? What about-- Dolly Parton, hell yes!”

She twists to look up at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious, she’s got like a great--” his hands rise up to his chest, but he catches her evil eye and concludes-- “voice. A great _voice_.”

She swats him and pulls another mixtape labeled Elton John. “Bunch of hits here.”

“I can dig it.”

“And here,” she hands him the Eurythmics.

Once they have a definitive pile she pops open the first of two tape decks on her spaceship stereo and goes about the work of creating a special party mixtape. It’s exhausting watching her. As the sun moves from high in the sky to just above the treetops, he grows bored and stretches out on the bed, careful not to mess up his hair. Can’t rush the process: Rob says the songs have to flow together, there can’t be any clunking or hissing noises because it’ll disturb the party atmosphere. Steve admits that, although he loves good tunes, he’s never paid attention to music at parties. Hell, at his own house parties he’d let the radio play whatever, or, if someone had a better idea, let them go ahead and work the needle on his mother’s neglected record player. Robin is careful, stopping and restarting, rewinding and fast forwarding to catch a certain song here and another on her Elton John mix. At some point he goes downstairs to get them drinks and bumps into her dad. By the time he comes back up Robin’s wiping sweat off her brow, writing the titles between cramped lines inside the tape cover.

“Finished?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Awesome.”

“So, before we put on our costumes, that question I want to ask you.” It takes a second to figure out what she’s referring to. He nods like _go ahead_ , standing near her bed sipping iced tea. She clears her throat lightly. “Who’s Andrew?”

He snorts, setting the glass on her nightstand and wiping his chin on the back of his hand. “Where’d you hear that name?”

She gets off her desk chair and sits on the bed, pulling him down next to her. “You know him?”

“Know? I knew him, yeah, but-- I don’t get it, who told you?”

“Yesterday when your mom was hosting Malibu Barbie time, I let myself into the house and eavesdropped.”

He snorts. “Cause that’s not weird or anything.”

“Don’t be mad! They were talking about you. How you need a job, and why you’re not working at your dad’s company. A particularly snooty Barbie mentioned Andrew, said it was a shame because he was interested in your dad’s company.”

“Well, he was,” Steve shrugs.

Her eyebrows raise, and she flourishes her braceleted arm. “Explain?”

He is used to keeping this private. It’s been a long time since anyone brought him up, actually, because it’s old news. The kids who would remember Andrew graduated years ago, and the adults all have other shit to deal with. He’s annoyed she brought this up, but there’s no reason to keep it from her. She was kind enough to share her biggest secret with him when he inappropriately confessed his love in a bathroom stall, minutes before the world almost ended. Basically, he owes her one, and what happened to Andrew isn’t even a secret.

“He was my brother,” Steve says. “I was like, seven when he died.”

“Oh.” Her face slackens, then adopts that look he hates. The pitying one, like he’s somebody different just cause he knows a dead guy. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” He waves it off. “It was a long time ago, obviously. I’m fine now.”

“If you say so. How old was he?”

“Shit, I don’t even remember. Think he was--” his eyes roam around the room trying to place it-- “twelve, thirteen maybe?”

“Like your kids?”

“My kids? Right,” he chuckles weakly, “yeah, like my kids.”

“What happened?”

His mind wanders anywhere but _there_ . Having a big brother was cool-- it meant _he_ was cool by association. Steve knew all sorts of things his elementary school friends didn’t because Andrew had already watched it, done it, given him advice. Sports coaching and flirting tips came from Andrew, who was stronger and better looking. He had their father’s angular features (thick eyebrows and a chin that said don’t mess with me), while Steve had their mother’s soft eyes. The only thing he is that Andrew wasn’t is funny. Or maybe humor is a skill Steve developed over time to lighten up the scene. Anything not to deal with how shitty life can really be. He’d forgotten for a few years, became a real asshole concerned with only what he could get. The past two years changed him. Nancy Wheeler changed him.

* * *

“Oh,” Dustin says, “My. God.”

“Do you love it or do you love it?” Steve gives them a spin, fluttering the green patterned cape attached to his jumpsuit. He doesn’t even care about getting laughed at-- other than his exposed ankles, the suit fits great, and the swish of it against his skin is smooth. 

“I hate it,” Dustin replies.

“Where did you even find that?” Lucas asks, face pinched. They’re sitting across the basement at the card table with Will.

Robin explains, “My sister made it years ago for a talent show. Amazing detail, right?”

Will comes over and touches the cape. “So cool. Freddie Mercury?”

“Yep.”

“Hey, we’re twins!” Steve bumps Will’s shoulder. He’s wearing his own purple wizard cape. “That Mercury guy is onto something, huh?”

“Definitely.”

“And you,” Max says to Robin. “Wow!”

Wow is right. She’s in a ruffled crop top that shows off her awesome girl bod (that he totally hasn’t checked out), and a stiff pink tutu safety-pinned with beads and bells. Her stockings are sloppy and ripped, boots covered in crust. She had Steve tease her hair out earlier and genuinely looks like a rockstar, way better than him.

Max and Will are the only kids who honored the costume idea. She’s wearing a leather jacket three times her size over a white shirt that highlights a pendant hanging on a long chain, and ill-fitting cutoff jeans that go to her knee. Her eyes are shadowed black and her bright hair is tied in a bun at the back of her head as if to hide it and she’s holding a liter of rum.

“Billy?”

She nods.

Steve says, “I had no idea you guys got along.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I bet.” Steve looks around. “So it’s just us? We’re the only four in costume, really? Come on, guys, get with it!”

“If ‘with it’ involves looking like _that_ ,” Dustin points at him, “I’ll pass.”

“Yeah, we just came to hang out,” Lucas affirms. They’re playing a board game Steve doesn’t recognize or care about.

“And try some of that--” Dustin tips his chin at the bottle.

“We get it,” Lucas groans, “you’re excited to have your first drink.”

“Found them!” Calls Mike, trotting downstairs with a bag of plastic cups.

Steve takes it upon himself to control the amount of rum going into everyone’s cups, and by everyone he means Rob, Lucas, Max, and Dustin. Since Will says he made a pact with his brother to never drink, Mike won’t either. That’s loyalty.

“Hey Rob,” he says, swishing contents together in a cup, “why don’t you pop in your mixtape?” Handing it to Dustin he lowers his voice to add, “All you brats better appreciate it, alright? She spent like three hours putting it together.”

* * *

_Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a real good time…_

There’s a holler from the card table. Robin and Max, flushed from bopping to every song, laugh loud, looking over Steve’s shoulder at Will. He’s the first to abandon the board game preventing the boys from embarrassing themselves on the floor.

“ _I feel aliiiiiive,_ ” Robin takes his hand.

Steve’s arms rise dramatically as he belts, “ _And the wooorld--_ ”

“-- _I’ll turn it inside out,_ ” Will syncs up.

“ _And floating around in ecstasy, so--_ ”

“ _Don’t. Stop. Me. Now,_ ” the four sing, as Steve plucks an invisible piano and totally tipsy Robin leans down to kiss both Max and Will’s heads in time to the beat. “ _Don’t. Stop. Me, cause I’m having a good time, I’m having a good time…!_ ”

Percussion drops in and the tiny floor becomes a whirlwind of silk, tulle, and leather; eight arms and legs flailing and punching the air like Easter candy fueled kids in a bounce house. Max tosses Billy’s heavy leather coat onto the couch. She’s the true rockstar with her dark eyeshadow, rosy cheeks, and dissolving bun. She catches Will’s cape and fans it around like he’s flying, and the card table dickheads continue refusing to dance. Dustin’s sitting there shaking his head while Lucas cheers Max on. Mike is the marvelling oddball out. In awe, he stands and distractedly floats closer to the chaotic troupe, eyes trained to Will who is in such need of stress relief it’s not funny. When the piano falls out and the beat doubles down, so do they, making a tight huddle. Steve and Robin chant, “ _Don’t stop me, don’t stop me, don’t stop me._ ” Over them Max and Will shout, “ _Hey, hey, hey!”_

Guitar solo! They fling away from each other to jam, and in the process Robin grabs Mike and throws him into the swing. Dustin and Lucas whoop and join in while Mike, too startled to free himself, turns lipstick red. Steve bounces excitedly with little brother Dustin, Lucas breaks into a ridiculous groove that sends Max into laughter. As the song slowly closes they join in a circle. Rob and Will, on either side of stubborn Mike, sing _la la la_ to his disorientedly amused face. Another kid in need of release. Tonight Steve heard Mike’s laugh for what he swears is the first time. Ever since he’s known him, the kid’s either miserable or in crisis or both, but tonight he’s smiling and radiating gratitude, proud to have his friends back together. It melts Steve’s heart; he remembers the reprieve of momentary presence. There is a euphoria in memory’s temporary absence-- the forgetting that you were hit with a total loss. Who knows, maybe things are returning to normal already. Wouldn’t it be great if all their unseen wounds could heal?

There’s a beat of silence between songs. Then, a crashing piano riff. An image of Tom Cruise sliding into the living room in his underwear. _Just take those old records off the shelf!_

A car backfires in Steve’s chest and knocks him backwards.

_I’ll sit and listen to them by myself._

All the words fall out of his head.


	40. Dustin

How he made it this far without a drink is beyond him. It’s like: _God, this is what I’ve been waiting for._ A funky burning sensation that swoons him near immediately into a state of sublimity.

At the card table the boys’ conversation runs on high, spirited by the togetherness Dustin feared was gone forever. Once again there is sacrality in Lucas’s reasoning, divinity in Will’s lawless wonder, and passion in Mike’s command as they hurl passwords at each other across the table in teams of two. Alcohol erases their loss, revitalizing the party to the extent that, watching decorated Steve refill his quickly drained cup, he marvels at how they ended up here: dopey pop and classic sing alongs, and _alright, but I’m cutting you off at three,_ a spring in Will’s step he hasn’t seen since seventh grade. Reveling in it, Dustin shouts boisterously about parapsychic powers and how he’s determined to help El recharge her batteries, sparking firework debates about the intersection between symbolism and manifestation that spin his head.

He loves every second of it. Finally, Dustin’s not the only one determined to have a good time! Joining in the dance is an added bonus, and Robin’s already dancing to the next song when Steve’s face contorts like putty into a sudden Shakespearean mask of comedic torment. He falls over, catching himself on the couch and sliding to the floor in front of it as if he just got kicked in the balls. Pale, bare-armed Max rushes to the stereo and slams STOP, rudely cutting the music as Robin dizzily crouches in front of Steve and shakes his shoulders. “Dingus, no! Not again!”

“Shit,” Max frowns, “another panic attack?”

Steve shuts his eyes tight and gasps, “Nancy!”

Footsteps rush up the stairs behind Dustin as he crashes to his knees and lightly slaps Steve’s face. “Can’t we get through one freaking day together without someone totally losing their shit? What the hell could possibly be wrong right now?”

“It’s a panic attack!” Robin whines, her tone the same as when he and Erica found she and Steve in the Russian underground.

“A panic attack?” Dustin barks. “What could you possibly have to panic about right now? We’re all safe!”

“It’s not a damn attack!” Steve wails, tears running down his face. Desperately, to Robin, “When did you even put that song on the mix?”

“You were there!”

“I wasn’t there!”

Dustin’s shouting obscenities over them when Max yanks him up by the arm. “Quit it! You’re not helping-- either of you,” she looks crossly at Robin. “Whatever this is, getting in his face is only making it worse.” She sets Dustin down in a chair at the card table by Lucas, as Will, in a similarly parental tone, sets Robin to another task. Her boots clunk up the steps as she calls Mike’s name, and then it’s just Will and Steve on the floor. “I don’t want--!” he complains between sobs-- “to cry in this-- outfit!”

Dustin lurches to a stand. “Then stop crying! Man the hell up already, we were all having a good time! Can’t we just have a good time?”

Before he can charge back to the couch, Lucas catches him by the collar. “Dude, are you seriously that damaged after two drinks?”

“Must be,” Max agrees callously, dropping her voice and coming closer. “Steve doesn’t need a reading of the holy gospel of masculinity tonight. He needs space and someone who actually knows how to help a guy who’s in the middle of a breakdown.”

“I know how to help him!” Dustin snaps loudly. “You guys have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Max folds her arms crossly, Billy’s chain tucked between her wrists and belly. She’s wearing Robin’s studded cuff. Black shadow around her penetrating blue eyes makes her intimidating. “We have a better idea than you, apparently. It’s pretty obvious why he’s upset.”

He cranes around her to see Steve, unable to admit in any rational way how scary it is to watch him fall apart. It’s almost as scary as rocketing up a thousand flights while his drugged best friend rolled around on the floor and some chick he barely knew informed him of the imminence of death, but they have no frame of reference for such fear because they weren’t there. The Griswold Family had it way easier than Scoops did. They had El. What did Scoops have? Shimmying through tiny steel shafts, socks stained with blood, and the sheer terror of turning corners only to discover they were fully exposed. Dustin is still plagued by panicked nightmares of having nowhere to hide, or finding someplace and tucking in safely before realizing he’s left Steve, drugged and child-like, out in an open expanse of cold steel.

“And why’s that?”

Lucas answers calmly. “That song must have reminded him of Nancy. Here he is in her house and,” he shrugs, “it’s gotta suck. Come on, let’s just sit this out and let Will handle it.”

Dustin snorts. “Will? Handle it? They’ve never even talked before.”

“I don’t think that matters.” He points, and Max shifts over so the three stand in a row, witness to the settling hush. Numinous Will sits on his heels and takes Steve’s opposite hands-- right to right, left to left, so they’re Houdini arm wrestlers locked and leaning foreheads closer until they touch. Steve cries.

 _It's different this time_. Yeah, and Dustin’s no longer any help.

“You guys are assholes,” he hisses. “He was my friend first, okay? Mine. We dealt with D’art. We survived in that Russian lair. We rode to the top of the hill so I could reach Suzie on Cerebro and we--”

Lucas cuts him off. “Would you shut up and let Will focus?”

“You know what? Screw you guys. I’m leaving.”

Their lack of objection hurts more than Steve’s rocking, boyish sobs, compelling Dustin to bitterly snatch the bottle of rum on his way out the basement door.

* * *

He’s never been drunk before, and subsequently mischannels a dozen times before figuring out how to work Cerebro while under the influence. “Suzie, do you copy? Suzie,” he says into the thundering silence. It would spook him if he were sober, but-- like the sweat soaking his shirt and the bleeding cut on his knee-- the silence goes unnoticed under the swimming pull of drink. “I know you’re awake, Suzie-Poo, it’s only nine in Utah. What better way to spend your evening hours than talking to poor, lonely Dusty-Bun?”

Eventually there’s a crackling, “Dusty?”

“Yes, it’s me! Copy, copy!” He flops happily into the slippery trodden grass, ticklish and cold. None of his friends like hauling ass up here except him, and he comes religiously to reach her. All he needs is a sleeping bag and telescope to properly appreciate the stars.

“Are you alright?”

“We’re under the same sky, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are, but,” he hears her sweet smile fade, “you sound different.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he grins, “you sound lovely. Like a princess.”

“Really.”

Her suspicion is missed. “Really, Suzie-poo.”

“If I didn’t know your moral code, I’d guess you’ve been drinking.”

“Bingo!” He laughs heartily, a booming in his chest to keep company in the chilly night. “You’re right!”

This alarms her. “Dustin, have you seriously been drinking?”

“So what if I have?”

“So what? You know how I feel about the future engineers, physicists, and inventors of the world engaging in crude, harmful--”

“It’s fun! I’m having fun, there’s nothing to worry about. I promise,” he adds in what he considers a soothing manner.

The promise is met by a silence he fills by rolling around so the stars shift. He’s inside a snowglobe, and some greedy kid just shook it.

“I’m disappointed, Dusty-Bun. What on Earth inspired this unbecoming behavior?”

He rolls onto the forgotten bottle and excitedly sits up (too fast, head swimming) to take a swig before buzzing her again. “My friends wanted to have a party to celebrate Steve, cause he finally got a job after like a whole month of his dad being a complete dickhead. I mean, I thought he hated me but it actually was his dad, that douchebag, and once we talked tonight I felt so much better except, Suzie, I’m telling you-- all my friends are fucked up.”

A high pitched, offended squeal: “Excuse me?”

“Pardon my French, dear. _Messed up._ They’re all messed up. There was a taste of old times tonight, and then boom, back to this ugly new reality. Mike ran upstairs, Lucas sided with his angry girlfriend, and Will the Wise took over like a true cleric instead of shying away. For a minute it was all time, like none of this bullshit ever happened, but then it was like meeting different versions of ourselves. I just want my friends back.” He reiterates sadly, “My friends.”

Silence again. Then, “I’m sorry you’re struggling. Is this because of that explosion on the Fourth?”

“Yes!” He latches onto the date. “Did I ever tell you what happened? Why I really needed Planck’s Constant that night?”

“No,” she says with cool skepticism. “You told me it was pertinent I understand that you could _never_ tell me because it was top secret information. I think your exact words were, ‘If I tell you, I’m putting you at risk of being taken hostage or murdered’, which,” she chuckles tensely, “to be frank, sounds a bit severe. Of course, you were just being a regular old silly goose. Right?”

“Afraid not.”

More silence. In it he hears _Just take those old records off the shelf!_ Catchy song, it was in a movie his mother raved about, around the same time Will went missing nearly two years ago. That’s when a lightbulb clicks on, and a series of Steve’s stories flash through his head: graffiti over the movie title, Jonathan punching him out, heartbreak. Shit. Dustin would never say it, but Lucas and Max were right. Smacking Steve and badgering him wasn’t helping. Jesus, is he ever going to break out of this pattern, trying and utterly failing to help his friends? If Mike’s a fallen leader-- forgetting his friends and running from crying Steve-- then Dustin’s a failed bard, and even the sting of rum can’t lift him up anymore. He thinks of the basement as if, in one tight genie blink he could teleport there and digest the realness of the situation. Apologize. Check on Mike so saucey Robin, who barely knows him, wouldn’t have to.

Suzie buzzes back in, startling him. He’d forgotten where he was and that he was having a conversation. “Who are you, really?”

The question startles him. He shakes his head, which she can’t see, and sighs heavily into the starry night. “I am one sorry son of a bitch.”


	41. Mike

Steve is a drowning, gasping victim, bringing Mike back to the staircase that Friday afternoon when Mrs. Byers told his mother the truth.

Steve coughs up his sister’s name and Mike cannot be here.

He reaches the kitchen landing before that inevitable nightmarish outbreath, an anguished howl much like his mothers. It haunts him. _My baby! My baby!_ Mike erroneously thought her absence would make it easier, but grief finds him through other people and the only good thing anymore is Will.

He’s halfway upstairs when a wail rises through the carpet, snatching his ankles to trip him. Rugburn on the heels of his palms. Another cry from below sends him scrambling up the remaining steps and down the hall into the bathroom, where he braces himself against the sink and avoids the mirror. His heart thrusts against his windpipe as he realizes why his feet flew him here. A shaking hand reaches for the medicine cabinet. The boxcutter itself rests on the top shelf behind a bottle of aspirin, but the slick silver blade is hidden in the Band Aid box. He sifts through, long fingers extracting it like a library catalogue card. Nausea inflates a balloon within. If it pops he'll be finished, a huge mess to clean. He can avoid that. He can control himself, and this how: unbutton your left sleeve, roll it to the elbow and expose it, present it for the practice that will calm you down. Let out only enough.

A rap on the door, left open a crack in his reckless flee, causes the blade to fling out of his hand and onto the floor. “Sorry, Dad!” he says mindlessly, “I’ll tell everyone to be quiet, just give me a minute, okay?”

“Pretty sure I’m not your dad.” A girl’s voice. He looks up. A shadowed blue eye peeps through the crack.

“Not now, Max.”

“Max?” Robin pushes in curiously, doorknob popping off the wall.

“Shh!”

“Sorry! Will told me to find you.” Mike ignores her, eyes poring over the floor again. She closes the door exaggeratedly slowly, the bells on her tutu jingling. “I’m sorry about Steve. He hasn’t exactly had anyone to talk to about her, and that song, I guess it reminds him of her somehow?”

“It’s fine.” He snatches the gleaming trapezoidal blade from the floor beside the toilet, the base of which is clean only because Will showed him how to maintain a house; at the Byers’ everyone shares the work. He straightens up, curling the blade against his palm. “Seriously, it’s fine. I get it, we’re all upset in our own ways, he’s a little drunk and needed a good cry, whatever. I don’t care.”

Her eyes are slightly unfocused. “Then why’d you run? Will said something was wrong.”

 _Then where is he?_ Mike thinks selfishly.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just-- I need to do something, by myself. I’ll be downstairs in a minute, okay?”

She blows an invisible bubble, then blurts, “Would you please like, talk to Steve? Please. I can send him up--”

“Robin, no.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not talking to someone who’s freaking out about my dead sister, and I’m not talking about my dead sister!” His fist curls around the forgotten blade. 

Robin shakes her head roughly. “Don’t say it like that! She _passed away._ ”

“No, she died. That’s what Nancy is now: dead.” He hears it in his mother’s voice. 

“Which is exactly why you should talk to someone who understands!”

“No one understands.”

“Steve does,” she nods. “He really, really does.”

“Just because he dated Nancy doesn’t mean he understands, and if this is about Steve wishing it’d been him too, so what? I’m sure we all wish we’d died instead of Nancy, Billy or Chief Hopper, but we’re stuck.” There’s a distinct pinch.

“You wish you were dead?”

“Forget it.”

“I can’t forget it!”

“Can you please just leave me alone?”

“Can you stop being such a little brat and _listen_ to me? He can help!”

“Shh! You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“Am not.” She looks over her shoulder as though his dad is standing there. When she looks back her purple shadowed eyes catch on his hand and open like saucers. “Is that blood?”

In the encompassing self-aware silence, he hears a drop of blood hit the floor. Another bead rolls to the pinky edge of his curled fist and drips next to the first, and that pinch from a second ago is a noticeable sting.

“Mike?”

Robin steps forward and he steps back. She’s drunk and hasn’t seen the marks yet, so it doesn’t count, like Will and the pigs he thinks attacked Mike. He hasn’t been caught yet, but the blade’s sharp edge is embedded in his skin (not where he wants it to be), and if he uncurls his fist it will bleed more, and the blade will reveal itself along with his stupidity. What is wrong with him? Steve was upset, and Mike ran away from his responsibility as a party leader, again. Redemption was before him in the form of a crying nineteen year old, one who-- as Lucas said-- has been willing to help _them_. How could he turn away?

Robin’s eyes breeze over him and stop at his rolled up left sleeve. “Oh Mikey, no,” she sighs defeatedly, pouting big. His forearm is lashed with fading marks (and yes, a few still-raised scabs) no one was ever meant to notice. And no one had noticed, until this blindly driven craving for physical hurt. “Dustin said it was weird you were wearing-- let me see.” She steps closer again and he steps back, this time bumping into the windowsill. The hard edge hits his wooden ladder spine. He winces and she quickly cups his hand with sisterly deft and uses her other to draw him by the shoulder to the sink, where she sets his right arm wrist up. The game’s lost. Robin’s drunk, she could run downstairs and tell everyone. He’s never been so angry with himself.

“Let me see!”

Slowly, with a significant eyeroll, he unfurls his fingers. The blade stands at attention, lodged in the flesh at the top of his palm, base of his fingers. It surprises him, but not her. She shakes her head and repeats, “Oh, Mikey.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Ignoring him, she plucks the glossy blade from his skin and drops it, tinkling, into the sink, completely undeterred by touching his blood-- something Nancy would never have done. _Ew, that’s disgusting, freak!_

Over the sound of his now elevated breathing she says, “Where’s your first aid kit?”

A thumping pulse in his hand. “There’s some band aids right there.”

“No,” she shakes her head again. “No, no, no, that won’t do! We need _first aid_ for this, look at it!” She watches him. “Are you looking?”

“I know I fucked up, okay?” His eyes burn, chest tight. He tries to tug away. “Let me deal with this on my own.”

She continues watching, firm grip on his right wrist. “First aid kit. Where?”

He knees the cabinet below the sink. As she crouches to retrieve it he sees blood run along the shallow lines of his thin skin and pool, dripping into the sink. For a split second there’s a disconnect. Is this actually his body? Is this how Will’s episodes feel?

Robin props the kit on the edge of the sink and opens it. In a whirlwind that knocks most stuff out and onto the floor she finds gauze, a non stick wound pad and medical tape. She turns on the faucet and sticks his hand under. “How long?”

“Ow, I don’t know! This water’s really cold.”

“Not the water, dummy, _cutting_.” It sounds repulsive on her tipsy tongue. “How long have you been cutting? And where else are you doing it? Are you bleeding anywhere else right now?”

“What do you mean where else?”

“Biceps, thighs, hips, stomach,” she lists impatiently. “Anywhere.”

The thought of his uncovered body disgusts him. It isn’t good-- it wasn't to begin with, much less now in the newness of his long limbs and sharp joints-- and he’s been reminded of that plenty. Troy’s _Frog Face_ , Nancy’s accusations to _cut your hair, you look like a girl_ ; his mother’s recent comments about his pokey shoulders and collarbones (more reason to wear sweaters and collared shirts), and Will’s gut punching _you look sick_. He just wants to be strong for Will, who needs him, which is something he couldn’t be for El: an honest support. She needed him, true, but she had more strength and stamina in her little toe than he did in his entire sprouting-weed body and still does. She has the Byers, Will. His Will. (He wishes.)

“No,” Mike answers, “I’m not doing it anywhere else.” She glances at his left wrist, prompting him to justify. “I’ve only done it, like, twice or something. It’s not a big deal.”

“Ha! Or something.” She pats a couple squares of gauze onto the palm. “You shouldn’t do it.”

“Thanks,” he says sarcastically, “I had no idea what an idiot I am.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she says seriously, fingers lightly pressing down on the pad.

“Easy for you to say. I bet you’d never do anything this dumb.”

“For your information, brat, I have. Sophomore year the girl I liked got a boyfriend, and even though I knew we would never happen I still let myself fantasize.” She replaces the wound pad with a clean one. “That’s always the danger, you know? Fantasizing. Your imagination tricks your brain into thinking it could be real.” Carefully she unrolls cottony wrap around his hand like a boxer. “My heart hurt so bad I figured it’d be a good idea to cut the pain out. As if I could actually do that. It’s never that easy.” Tearing off a strip of medical tape she continues. “But it felt good, and it became a habit, and that’s why you shouldn’t do it.” She sticks the tape in place and reviews her work, turning his hand in both of hers. “Is it too tight?”

He shakes his head, stunned by the story and this new information. _She likes girls?_ Unexpectedly she pulls him into a hug. The motherly adultness of her body flips his stomach. His own mom didn’t hug him before she left with Holly because they’d had another fight, about a necklace he definitely didn’t steal from Nancy’s room.

“You’re not stupid,” Robin says softly into his ear. “I promise you’re not stupid, okay? You’re just in pain. Soooo much pain, my little friend, and you need to figure out a different way to let it go.”

“Please,” he whispers, eyes shut, “don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to get in trouble, and I especially don’t want Will to find out. He can’t find out.”

She releases him. Her blue gold eyes sparkle. “Don’t hide this part of yourself from him because he’ll be upset. Include him in it. He’s one of the most understanding people I’ve ever met.”

Mike rolls his left sleeve down and fixes the button. “Yeah, he is, but--” the pulse in his palm is a relief from the discomfort. In spite of everything Robin just said, he is compelled to protect this tool of distraction. “I don’t know if I can tell him.”

“Well you should, cause he’s more than your best friend.”

Mike’s eyes snap up to hers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, let’s go back to the party. I’m sure the dingus has recovered by now.” She takes his uninjured hand and he lets her lead, hung up on _he’s more than your best friend._

* * *

Did everyone leave? Approaching the basement steps, then descending slowly behind tottering Robin, Mike hears nothing. No crying, but no talk or music either, to signal a return to their fleeting joy. Stepping onto the carpet he is shocked to see Will and Steve locked together on the floor in front of the couch. The latter sniffles once, head bowed against Will’s. Their hands are doubly linked, a nest tucked against Steve’s chin, reminding Mike of a campaign that ended in respite: a peasant kissing the cleric’s hands. With another turn of the stomach he wishes he were Steve, close enough to breathe Will and cling to the purple cape stained with nightmare sweat and tears. All those nights he woke choking, convinced he was drowning in a bloody, plasmodial vat of nameless townspeople. _This isn’t how I want to die_.

“Jesus, what happened?” Max comes out of the shadows near the card table, where she’d been watching the strange ritual, alone.

Her voice rouses Steve, who looks up at Mike and Robin as if they’re apparitions of God. Shaking himself awake, his bloodshot eyes focus and, landing on the bandaged hand, widen. “Shit, man, what happened?”

Robin clutches the sides of her face. “Whoops!”

Will parts from Steve and stands up, kicking out each cramped leg once. Then he’s toe to toe to Mike, lifting his hand gently. He looks between him and Robin, glassy eyed. Mike freezes, too afraid of being found out to ask Will if he’s okay-- if he’s _here_.

“Seriously,” Steve sniffles, rising to stand beside Will. He glances at Mike apologetically. “What happened up there?”

“She slammed my hand in the door.”

“You slammed his hand in the door?” Steve barks at Robin. “What the hell, I thought we were on the same page, take care of the kids!”

“I _did_ take care of the kids!” her eyes roam around conspicuously, and Mike’s heart beats loud, willing her not to reveal his secret. “Ugh, it was an accident okay? Are you ready to go home, cause I’m kind of not feeling well.”

“What,” Steve says teasingly, “did you drink too much?” He looks around. “Speaking of which, Max? Where’s the bottle? Where’s--” he scratches his head, newly trimmed hair cresting haphazardly-- “where are Dustin and Lucas?”

“Well,” she begins with a smile, though her nostrils flare, “apparently Lucas and I are assholes who think we know you better than he does, so he stormed out with the rest of my rum, and when he didn’t come back, Lucas went after him.”

Will looks up, meeting Mike’s eyes in such a way that makes him pull his hand back and bite his lower lip. Guilty, and guiltier. The last thing he wants is to launch a search party when the alternative is an inviting night of sleep. But if he doesn’t offer to help, after running out on Steve, then who is he? A liar and a jerk.

“Should we go, too?” he asks, finally breaking his eyes away from Will’s.

Max shrugs. “I’m sure they’re fine. Lucas said he’d call once he finds Dustin. To be honest, I’m ready to go home too.”

Robin yawns. “Steve? What do you want to do?”

After a thoughtful moment he says, “Let’s take a spin, see if he’s up on, what’s that thing called? The thing on the hill?”

“Cerebro?”

“Yeah!” He snaps. “Cerebro. You guys wanna come?”

Will shakes his head. “Tonight was really fun, but I’m tired.” He shoulders off the cape and tosses it onto the couch. “Mike and I’ll stay here, wait for Lucas to call.”


	42. Lucas

Cool night breeze freezes the sweat. He’s cold, walking his bike up the hill, and if he isn’t home before 11 o’clock he’ll be grounded again. He wishes he’d asked Mike to come with him. Would he have? As soon as Steve cried Nancy’s name he bolted. Lucas can’t blame him. If Erica died-- and she could have, she so easily could have-- he wouldn’t want to stick around to see someone blubber about her. Still, it was unlike him to run, particularly when Will stayed. Whatever one does the other follows.

It sucks. They’d been having an amazing night. The rum and Coke was a bonus; Lucas has snuck a few drinks here and there with his older cousins at family parties, so he knew what to expect and wasn’t overly impressed. Once he reached that sunshiney feeling he was finished. It was a relief to have his friends again, with Max enjoying herself independently of him, which El could never do as Mike’s girlfriend. Although she’s an awesome friend-- one of the best, by definition-- he can’t deny that her presence alters the mood. Mike’s always serious around her, even though they get along, and Lucas pities her. Everyone does. Seeing her is a reminder-- an awful truth. They needed this: a party with the main four. It kind of felt like old times. Mike had actually been happy for once, laughing at Lucas’s lame jokes and sparring sarcastically with Dustin, who was a sore loser over Mike and Will’s many _Password_ wins like they can read each other’s minds. It was obvious Dustin was a little jealous about the invisible current running between them, especially since he’s got this thing about being forgotten in July, which he hasn’t let Lucas hear the end of. He wants things to be how they were. _Can’t we just have a good time_? No, not anymore. There’s no such thing as a good time that isn’t tainted by memory, or popped like a balloon by a flashback, harsh words, or, in this case, a song.

Moonlight shimmers off his dark arms as he climbs. A frightful sound strikes him. Terror creeps up his shoulders and he spins around in search of shadowy dangers, demonic creatures that slither through tall grass. He jumps and whimpers girlishly at an imagined thing grazing his bare calf. It occurs to him with a chill that the batteries in the flashlight taped securely to his bike are going to die soon. In his excitement earlier he’d neglected to pack an extra set. He wasn’t meant to be riding further than Mike’s and Max’s tonight, but still. Irresponsible! He knows better than that by now. Basic survival tools should be kept on your person at all times. His pocket knife (a recent purchase only Max knows about, since it’ll make him the first party member to carry a weapon and no, Nancy and her guns don’t count) won’t do much good if he can’t illuminate the threat to begin with, and upon this hill there’s nowhere to hide.

Another stark cry brings clarity-- it’s only Dustin. Lucas pushes up the rest of the hill, using Cerebro’s peak as his compass, and lays his bike in the grass. Max’s stolen rum bottle shimmers on the ground beside Dustin, who looks one turn of the screw away from howling at the moon.

Lucas goes unnoticed until he catches his breath and says, “What the hell are you doing up here?”

“Ah!” There’s debris in Dustin’s sweaty, curly hair. Uncharacteristic tears on his cheeks. Mud tracks up his arms, stains on his shorts. Blood on his knee. He stumbles to a stand. “I should be asking you the same thing, traitor!”

“Traitor?” He squints his eyes. “Are you seriously still upset at me and Max for stopping you from being a douchebag to Steve?”

“Yes, I am, not to mention Suzie just dumped me. This is the worst night of my life!” Dustin wobbles, stoops to pick up the bottle and takes a slug. He’s out of his mind to be up here in the dark. Lucas should have brought backup. If anything happens it’ll be his fault.

“That’s a ridiculous exaggeration but okay. Why’d she dump you?”

In a slurry of obscenities Dustin explains how Suzie ditched isn’t interested in _bad boys_ who drink. Lucas would laugh if he wasn’t so concerned about getting off this damn hill and home before he’s in trouble. When Dustin’s through complaining he says, “You’re better off single, dude. We start high school in a few weeks. You’ll have plenty of girls to choose from. I can help you.”

“Christ, I don’t need another girlfriend,” he asserts. “I need my friends back.”

Lucas waves his arms. “Um, hello? I’m standing right here.”

Dustin shakes his head defeatedly. “It’s different.”

“Do you mean _I’m_ different?”

“Yeah. All of you are, and it’s freaking me out. It wasn’t long ago Mike was our leader and we were equals among him. A true party, but now look at us! Mike can’t handle a damn thing, and apparently neither can Steve. Oh, and Will somehow knows him well enough to talk him off a ledge, and Max can speak on his behalf? I mean, what is this crap?” Rum sloshes around the bottom of the bottle in his hand.

“It’s not crap. It’s our lives.”

“So what, we can never have fun again because we saw some crazy shit and people died? I was having fun tonight, weren’t you?”

Lucas doesn’t answer. His eye is on that bottle and how bad of an idea it was for Steve to give Dustin a third cup. He lunges forward to seize the bottleneck and as he yanks it away the bottle chips one of Dustin’s bottom teeth. “Ow!” He careens back, cursing, and feels around his mouth. “Son of a bitch, you chipped my tooth!”

“Sorry,” he says insincerely. There’s no sense searching for the bottle cap or returning the dregs of the bottle to his girlfriend, so he dumps the last few ounces of smelly rum in the grass as Dustin runs his finger back and forth over his chipped tooth.

“Party’s over,” Lucas announces, tossing the bottle into the darkness. “We’re going home.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why? Are you afraid your mom’ll find out you’re drunk?”

“Maybe.”

“Then just go back to Mike’s, I’m sure he’ll let you crash there with Will tonight.”

“And burst their bubble? No thanks.”

“So you have a problem with Mike and Will now, too?”

His eyebrows raise. “Problem? No. But they’re up to something. Did you see the looks between them tonight? The _looks_ , Lucas, my God, it’s like they’re in love!”

“Gross! They’re definitely not. Why are we even talking about this? We need to go home. And since you refuse to go home or back to Mike’s, you’re coming with me.”

It’s a terrible plan. First, if his parents or snoopy sister find out they drank it’ll be his ass on a platter. Second, he doesn’t want Erica anywhere near his friends. She’d overheard him on the radio last night and had begged to come, and he had tried explaining how Dustin, Steve, and Robin shouldn’t be thought of as friends because that’ll hinder her moving past this whole mess. At least she has a chance! Lucas has served three tours of duty at this point and has plenty of battle scars both in and outside to prove it-- he doesn’t have the luxury of moving on, and wouldn’t wish the burden of carrying the memory of monsters around on his worst enemy/little sister. The sooner Erica moves on the better, and hanging around Scoops Troop isn’t going to help. She argued and cried but he stood firm and, surprisingly, their parents agreed he would be allowed out to see _his friends_ alone. 

“You know, ever since Nancy’s funeral I’ve been trying to be a better friend. I have,” Dustin insists, “but what’s the point? I’ve got no purpose in the party. If you can even call it a party anymore. My role as a bard-- I can’t fill it.” He disheartenedly kicks the grass.

“Okay, I know you’re having a shitty night, but we really need to move. We’ll talk about it on the way home.” He walks over to Dustin’s bike, thrown carelessly on the crest of the hill, and walks it to him.

A glistening tear slides down his cheek as he takes the handlebars. “No one’s taking me seriously. Not even you.”

“If you want us to take you seriously, stop joking around and teasing everyone. We’re all sensitive and it’s not funny.”

“I’m trying to help!”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, it isn’t helping,” he says, walking to his own bike. “You need to get real.”

Dustin throws down his bike and marches over. “Damnit, Lucas, I am being real! Stop acting like you know everything, like I didn’t have it worse than you. You have no idea what it was like down there. You guys had El. We had nothing!”

“Robin and Steve aren’t nothing,” Lucas points out, leaving his bike on the ground, “and as much as I hate to admit it, my sister’s no dummy either. Just because we had El doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard up here. She’s only human, and that parapsychology ESP stuff you were talking about earlier? It’s cool, but it should be El’s choice whether she wants to recharge her batteries or not.”

Dustin groans. “There you go siding with Max again.”

“It’s not siding with her. She’s right, and you know it! El is our friend. We were wrong to treat her like a machine to--”

“When did we treat her like a machine? When?”

“A hundred times! We used her to find Will and Barb, to kill the bad guys and keep us safe, and to close the gate, twice. And it wasn’t like she got to live a normal life outside of that. Hopper hid her in his cabin and she had to follow all these dumb rules, you know? She’s not just another kid.”

“She’s _not_ another kid, that’s the point. She was being trained as a weapon to fight against the Russians and that’s exactly what she did.”

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe she didn’t want to? Like maybe being a fourteen year old war veteran with a body count wasn’t on her summer to-do list?”

“No one would pity Achilles for being a weapon, because that’s literally what he was born to be. El’s a hero!”

“Do you hear yourself right now? Comparing El to a demigod? She’s human, and she’s had it harder than any of us! Max told me-- yes,” he says irritably when Dustin tries to interrupt, "I actually talk to my girlfriend about serious stuff. She told me El doesn’t feel like a hero. At all. Think about it: Billy and Nancy, dead. Hopper, dead. She can’t escape it. Her actions are on Mike’s face, and Max’s. Shit, she lives with Jonathan now, and you know what a dick he’s been lately. Can you imagine how she feels?”

“No, Lucas, I can’t!” He yells this indignantly, but he’s crying now, harder than before. “I don’t want to think about any of it, I wish it had never happened!”

“But it did, Dustin!” As he shouts it, a wave of acceptance rolls over him. Tears fill his eyes and he reiterates their ugly truth, palms up in surrender. “It happened, and we’ve all changed. We can still be a party of best friends, but it’s never going to be like it was, just the four of us. It’s different now.” He adds genuinely, “I’m sorry.”

Briefly Dustin staggers, and Lucas worries he’s a lost cause. Is he going to remember this in the morning? Then he lurches forward and wraps him in a bear hug. “I’m sorry, too.”

They’re locked like this when a shadow appears against the backdrop of glowing Hawkins cul-de-sac homes. “Say, what are you two loooosers doing up here?” It’s Robin, chunks of dry grass stuck in her stockings. Her boots are shiny with fresh mud. She slips in the grass where Lucas dispatched the rum, and laughs.

Steve follows. “Found you guys! What do we win?” He's naked from the waist up; the patterned jumpsuit has been unzipped and folded forward, and the silky arms are tied around his hips to keep it in place. He has an ungodly amount of chest hair that Lucas prays _he_ won’t have at nineteen (or however old Steve is, because he kind of looks twenty-seven).

“You win this,” Dustin says, throwing his arms open and swaying through the trampled grass. He smacks into Steve for a sweaty hug while Lucas hangs back, wiping his eyes inconspicuously.

As Robin draws closer there’s an odd hairspray-barroom smell, and the nostalgic feeling Dustin pointed out, that Lucas shared too, falls away to a moment of unfamiliarity. Who are these weirdos and how did their lives converge? Then Robin’s giggling, joining the hug, and it's familiar again. They’re weirdos bound in blood. “Did you boys already call Mikey?”

“Mikey?” Lucas echoes critically. “Not yet. How’s he doing, by the way? Did he ever come back downstairs?”

“Yeah, he came back downstairs,” she says simply, pulling out of the hug and twirling below the stars with her head tilted back to gaze at them, like a kid during the first snowstorm. Lucas imagines her on the cover of one of Jonathan’s rock albums, or the weird band posters Max said Billy had (has? Neil hasn't touched his room yet) stuck up on his walls. Would he and Jonathan have been friends, if given the chance? Would Robin and Nancy? Had they ever even met?

“He’d be better if Tinkerbell over here hadn’t slammed his hand in a door,” Steve says about Mike. He casually drapes an arm over Dustin’s rounded shoulders and Lucas is thankful he looks better, body hair aside. It’s amazing that a guy who’s had his ass kicked so many times is still so forgiving, like there was never any tension between him or Dustin, or anyone in the world.

“Wait," Dustin says, "you did _what_?”

The three break into a chatter providing distinctly varying perspectives about what happened after Dustin ran out: Steve raves about Will filling him with warmth and putting air in his lungs-- _like some kind of magician, I swear to God it was nuts!--_ as Robin announces proudly Mike is officially her unofficial baby brother, although he doesn’t know that yet, and Dustin voices over the both of them with news of his recent breakup.

“Okay,” Lucas says, “while you guys finish blabbering loud enough to get us all killed, I’m gonna call Mike.” He moves toward Cerebro, where Dustin’s abandoned radio lay in the shiny, alcohol drenched grass. Luckily when he picks up the radio, it’s dry.

“Hey!” Robin shouts, running forward. “I wanna call them! They’re my brothers!”

“Oh, so now they’re both your brothers? What are you, adopting the whole town?” Steve chides. “Let me guess, this makes Max your sister?”

“Where is Max?” Lucas asks, suddenly remembering she was supposed to sleep over at Robin's tonight.

“In the car being a total grumpy pants,” Robin sighs, holding her hand out expectantly for the radio. “Said she wasn’t walking all the way up here just for you lame-o's.” She laughs at the boys’ faces and tells Steve, “And yes, as a matter of fact, she is my sister.”

“How! You didn’t even like these brats a month ago.” He playfully bumps her shoulder. “You’re only getting mushy cause you’ve been drinking.”

She forgets the radio and bumps him back. “Didn’t like _you_ a month ago either, but look at us now!”

“Ugh,” Dustin complains, “get a room or something!”

“Seriously,” Lucas shakes his head, testing the radio.

“Disgusting!” Robin splits from Steve and regains interest. “Let me call, please?”

“Fine, but make it quick.” He hands her the radio, which is intercepted by Dustin. A scrabble ensues that must confuse the hell out of Mike and Will across town. Lucas checks his watch, shifting it under the night sky. “Can you guys hurry up? I really don’t feel like spending the last few weeks of summer grounded again.”


	43. Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See also - Deleted Scene 1: Mike's Nightmare

Robin’s hugs remind him of Mom’s. She’s always all in. Not just tops of chests touching, or light taps on the back. He’s surrounded by love and warmth and her awful teased out hair tickling his face. He squeezes her around the waist and whispers, “Thank you.”

She shouts, “You’re welcome!” As Steve and Max start toward the car, she grabs Mike’s shoulders. “You better tell him. You tell him now, right after we leave. Hear me?”

He shrugs annoyedly out of her grip and rushes, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but get home safe, okay guys? Bye!” He shuts and locks the front door before she makes it across the lawn. In the post-party silence he stalls, fingers perched on the lock as if bracing himself. Finally he turns to say, “What a night, am I right?” His lips pull at the corner, then fall. “Hey, you don’t look so good.”

“It’s late.” It’s not, actually; they’ve been going to sleep later than this, but whatever strength he gave Steve sapped his own. He just wants to lie in bed reading until Mike’s breath is smoothed by sleep. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Oh, that?” Mike starts toward the kitchen. “I have no idea what she was talking about, she’s drunk.”

Will follows. “She wasn’t that drunk. What else happened upstairs?”

He slips across the kitchen and quickly descends the basement steps, giving Will the sense of chasing in a dream. A familiar alcohol stench saturates the basement. Nauseating. “Mike?” He is stacking dirty plastic cups from the coffee and card tables. “Tell me what?”

He continues avoidantly. “It’s nothing, really. I was upset about Steve and Robin helped me out.”

Will watches, confused. “She wanted you to tell me she helped? That can’t be everything. Stop,” he says agitatedly, “we’ll handle it tomorrow. I asked you a question.”

Mike straightens up, cradling a stack of sticky cups in his hands. “Okay, and?”

“And?” Will echoes. “You ran upstairs and came back with a bandage and, according to Robin, something to tell me. So tell me.”

Mike glances nervously at the bandage around his palm. Sticky drops of lukewarm soda have stained it.

“She didn’t slam your hand in the door, did she?” 

“Yes she did.”

“So why are you bandaged?”

“Forget it. Let’s just clean up tonight so we don’t have to do it tomorrow.” Will stops him as he reaches for the cups again, and he rears back, bumping into the card table. Forgotten game pieces jostle and fall. “Stop!” he snaps, arms up in defense. “Leave me alone.”

He reels. “Did I do something to upset you?”

“God, no!”

“Then what’s wrong with you?”

Mike’s face twists into family mealtime resentment, a look he’s never once directed at Will until now, advancing darkly, quickly undoing the buttons on his shirt. “You want to know what’s wrong with me?”

“Yes!”

“This,” Mike says, shrugging off the security-blanket flannel and dropping it to the floor. “This is what’s wrong with me.” He turns his wrist up. Shocking violence paralyzes Will. He hardly hears, “I cut myself, okay? Twice. Using my dad's boxcutter. Tonight would have been the third time but Robin caught me right as I was about to do it. I tried to hide the blade in my hand but she noticed the blood.”

Holding his padded right palm forward, left palm turned up, he is a boy taking oath.  _ So help me God. _ Will’s breathing mounts itself. He is overwhelmed. An unnoticed child found a boxcutter in an unwatched toolbox and licked it over his skin, simple as magic marker. Where was the pause? The instinct of self-preservation? Blurred, distorted. A thousand questions burn Will's throat. Was he scared? Did he think of being sick? Did he wish he weren’t alone?

“There,” Mike says, dropping his arms to his sides, “I hope you’re happy now.”

Will catches his rancor like a virus. It worms through him, a dreadful dance on the backs of beasts who should stay sleeping.  _ I hope you’re happy now _ . His father’s favorite phrase, used to bludgeon whenever Mom pushed him for answers, or he-- a child-- became too visible. Her fault they argued, he got drunk. Will’s fault his art was ripped up, he got hit. Will’s fault. He scraped skin off Mike’s arm, deliciously gathering the last bit of ice cream at the bottom of the bowl. He is Troy, sinking his fist in Mike’s belly on the playground and spitting gum in his hair as he doubles over, gasping. He is Billy, slamming Mike’s face into a wall so hard he falls unconscious, setting an oval scar among his constellation freckles as a reminder of mortality. He is his father burying a kitten up to its neck in soil and kicking the head off, so it lands four feet away with an open lipped glare at the sky and he is laughing, hands on his cocked hips and an unfathomable bulge pressed against his zipper. Blood and fur on his boot.  _ You tell your mother about this and I’ll fuckin gut you, understand me?  _ God, the screaming. The pain the next day and  _ yeah, that’ll teach you not to bring home a stray. _

A flicker of white skin catches his attention. His hand shoots out and grabs Mike’s arm. Trembling, Will turns the wrist up and runs his fingers over the perverse scabs. He draws a shuddering breath. The exhale comes as tears. How could he? Will has yet to find fitting words of reprimand. He runs his fingers back and forth, pauses over Mike’s pulse.

His pulse! Will shortens the distance between them, lifting his free hand and hovering it over Mike’s chest. Realizing the intention, Mike tries to pull away. “Don’t,” he pleads. The flash flood of anger has fully evaporated. “We should talk first, please--”

“I deserve to know if this is real,” Will says sharply, closing his eyes and pressing his palm flat. There, beneath the layers, a greyhound heartbeat all heaving ribs slick with sweat, sprinting to the finish line where further punishment awaits. Will yelps as if stung, startling Mike backward and breaking their connection. “Why?” His eyes open, voice wavering near hysterics. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Did you think I was too weak to handle it?”

“No! You’re the strongest person I know aside from El, and that’s only because she has powers.”

“I don’t care how I compare to her!” Incredulity. Disbelief. “How long have I not known?”

Mike looks away, the notches of his throat pronounced. If only Will could sink his teeth into the flesh beside his windpipe, deep enough to extract the poison shrinking spaces between synapses. Restore his clarity.  “You knew before I ever did it,” he tells the wall. “But I lied.”

So it _was_ Will’s fault. He sways on his heels, humming a long note of despair. It fails to soothe. A tear slips into the ditch at the corner of his mouth.

Mike meets his eye, head hanging low. “The night of Nancy’s funeral, you called to ask if I was safe. You knew something was wrong, and I knew you knew, so I tried to hide it. I didn’t want to worry you.”

The next breath comes as a hiss. Will rocks. Should he pull Mike to him or push him away, run out of this house and never look back? He swore to Jonathan he’s survived worse than whatever hurt Mike could serve, but never, not once, did he imagine this.

“I’d already decided to do it, and-- I wanted to call you before I did it, but I knew you’d be upset that I’d even thought about it.”

A sob cracks out. “And finding out like this is better? Mike, I would have come back for you!”

“You did,” he says painfully. Tears marble his eyes. “Don’t you remember? The nightmare.”

Will stops rocking. Nothing in his head but Mike's mop of an arm and his cat-wide mouth, screaming. “Those pigs never attacked you, did they?”

“What?”

His voice grows loud, motored by a chestful of anger. “You said the pigs attacked your arm before they ate it, but it was your subconscious reacting to something you did to yourself! Why did you lie to me?”

“Because I didn’t want this to happen! This is my bullshit, not yours, but I screwed up again and now you’re mad at me. You probably think I’m some suicidal head case or--”

“Are you?” His alarm is palpable and stuns Mike, tear stricken and uneasy. This is really the conversation unfolding in the basement. He is really asking the boy he loves, “Do you want to kill yourself?”

“Not right this second, but I think about it sometimes.”

“You would take yourself away from me?”

“Come on, it’s not like that, I’m--”

“You’re sick!” His raspy shouting gives way to a series of sobs that nearly crowd out Mike’s following outburst.

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don't what a loser I am? I know, okay? And I hate myself for doing this to you because I-- Shit, I just wanted us to spend the next few days together. Happy. Once you leave I’ll be alone again, and you have no idea how much I hate being alone.” A tear drops off his lashes and down the steep slope of his cheekbone. “I hate myself so much. I wish it were me who’d been Flayed, or--”

“Stop!”

“-- I died jumping into the quarry, or we never said I love you that night, because then I wouldn’t be so confused!”

“What is there to be confused about?”

“I like you!” Mike cries. Then he falters, jaw hanging open enough to set hollows in his cheeks. He closes his mouth and shakes his head, gives a slight shrug as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I like you, Will, but boys aren’t supposed to like boys, and--”

A whip of static cracks the air. The forgotten radio sits on one of the game shelves; someone had put it up there earlier when clearing space to dance. Another thick buzz is accompanied by a buoyant, “Do you copy?”

Avoiding him, Mike crosses to the shelves and snatches the radio up. “Copy. What do you want? Over.”

“Hey, don’t get snippy!” It’s Steve.

“You’re supposed to say ‘over’!” Robin, fumbling the radio. It cuts out, perhaps irritably switching hands, and Lucas is next, informing, “I found Dustin by Cerebro. Then they found us. We’re just calling to let you know everyone’s safe, so… Hang on,” he grumbles, “Dustin wants to talk to you.”

There’s a brief hold. Dustin crackles in; there’s laughter behind him. Will imagines the twilit sky and wishes he were there, instead of in these dark shadows of admission. Then Mike turns, his downcast eyes striking some chord in minor key, deep and sorry, and if he bites his lower lip one more time there will be no choice but to kiss him.

“Yeah, yeah, he says goodnight, too. Get home safe and we’ll see each other this weekend, alright? Over and out.”

An immediate buzz. Dustin’s insistent, “Not over and out! Not over and--!” Mike switches off the radio and slams it onto the shelf. He mumbles an apology and rushes upstairs on white willow legs, leaving Will in shock.

_ Boys aren’t supposed to like boys. _

* * *

He wakes to a scream. The basement couch is damp with sweat and it’s dark but he’s up, ears pricking, discerning. Which plane of existence is this? He had never made it upstairs to bed, convinced he had ruined his only chance by way of ignorance. He had deprived Mike-- the boy who, splintered and soaked in pain, still instinctively knows how to ground him-- the same freedom from judgement he had been offered. Permission to be sick in the presence of someone who understands.

_ Will?! _

Doesn’t matter. Mike needs him.  He rushes upstairs, legs burning by the time he hits the second floor landing and skids to a halt outside Nancy’s locked door. Mr. Wheeler looms in Mike’s doorway, leaning on the frame and lecturing over his son’s heaving breaths. “You might still be on vacation, but it’s a work night for me, Michael. Show some respect and let your old man sleep!”

“Dad, I told you-- the light went out, and Will, he--”

Tears edge in.  Will cannot see him cry again tonight, but the moment he steps forward Mr. Wheeler interjects disappointedly and he slinks back into place, noticing that the light falling into the hallway comes off the lamp just inside the door, not the favored one by Mike’s bed. “If I recall correctly, Will was your responsibility this week, yes? You begged me to let him stay and swore you’d look after him.”

“And I have been, but--” 

“No buts, son. You’ll be the one to tell that neurotic mother of his if something happens, do you understand?”

Mike makes an inconsolable noise, a knife sunk in Will’s gut. He clears his throat. “I’m right here, Mr. Wheeler. I just went downstairs to get a drink.”

“I see.” He turns from the doorway, evaluating. Will swallows nervously, remembering his own father in a similar pose. Mike pokes his head out. Although his eyes are red rimmed and his forehead shines with sweat, the relief on his face is instant. His eyes lock onto Will’s and soften. A twist of the knife. Mike isn’t angry with him, probably never was. He’d awoken to the absence of his best friend and even now stands overwhelmed, hanging chest first into the hall with one hand on either side of the doorframe, biceps flexing thinly, a shadow playing between muscle and bone. Not only is he supporting half his weight on an injured palm-- his left wrist is turned out. If Mr. Wheeler has seen, he makes no show of it. “Maybe you should write him a note next time,” he chuckles, clapping Mike’s shoulder and knocking him out of position, earning a cold teenage glare. He starts toward his bedroom at the end of the hall, then stops. “By the way, Will?”

“Yes?”

“Do you sleep with the lights on?”

“No.”

He regrets deferring so readily to authority when Mike sucks his teeth and Mr. Wheeler levels him. “You oughta learn from your friend here, son.  _ He _ doesn’t need a nightlight to sleep. Frankly, no fourteen year old should.”

“I’m thirteen until October,” Mike counters coldly, “or did you forget my birthday?”

“Watch it. Not another sound from you, alright?” He looks at Will. “Agreed?”

“Yes,” Will says, edging toward the beam of light soaking the carpet.

Once the master bedroom door shuts, Mike tugs Will inside and shuts them in. He sits on the edge of the bed and rubs his eyes with the reddened heels of his palms. He sucks in a long, shaky breath. “Was it you?”

“Where?”

“In my nightmare, was it you?” His hands drop to his lap, and the light throws bruises beneath his eyes. He hugs himself as if to hide the cuts.

Will sits beside him and touches his arm. “You don’t have to cover them around me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. And no, it wasn’t me. I was somewhere else.” This is met with silence. Mike unfolds his arms, letting them relax on his pale thighs. Neither of them changed into pajamas. Will ventures, “What happened?”

“You died.”

“Oh. How?”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s-- I just, the worst part is that I woke up and the lightbulb was out, and I called for you, but you weren’t here and I thought--” he almost can’t say it-- “I thought you were actually gone.” There’s weight to this: Will should be dead a hundred times over, and Mike knows that grief intimately now. “Why didn’t you come to bed?”

The question surprises him. “I thought you were upset with me.” He turns, pulling one leg onto the bed. “Mike, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made it seem like there’s something wrong with you. I want you to be able to trust me when you’re hurting.”

“What are you talking about? I do trust you. More than anyone in the world.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. And I’m sorry, too. For everything. I won’t lie to you again, I promise.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Did you mean what you said? That you like me?” He braces for inevitable disappointment.

“Right, I said-- yeah.” His lips make a thin line of thought and he glances away. “I’m pretty sure I meant it.”

Will frowns. “Pretty sure?”

“Well, I’ve never liked a boy before, so, you know, it’s different.” Another pause of consideration. “It’s different but also the same. The feelings, I mean.”

“What made you realize?”

“Little things, you know? But yesterday, after your episode, when we were sitting downstairs and you were leaning against me? I wanted to--” He shrugs. “You don’t want to hear this, it’s lame.”

“Not to me. You were right, you know," he says, "I don’t like girls. But I like you, a lot. More than anyone in the world.”

Mike’s eyebrows lift and freeze there. Tension builds in the stretching silence and Will doubts himself. Infinite possibilities played through his head, a million and one acceptances and rejections. A hundred ways to say it, heart in his throat, putting all his faith in Mike not to break him. He is already broken, though. What more could it cost him?

The silence becomes unbearable. He stands up, hoping this isn’t where the night ends and he’s forced to feign sleep on the top bunk knowing the boy he loves reciprocates but is incapacitated, perplexed. “Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow.” 

Mike catches him. “Wait. Just give me a chance, okay? I’ll show you.” Pulling him onto the bed, he shifts closer to the wall and lays on his back, head propped on a pillow. Will’s heart skips-- rain pattering a windowpane, erratic yet familiar all the same. Is something going to happen? One liberated by sharing his truth and the other both broken and emboldened in the hours passed.

“Here.” Mike motions, tugs with his bandaged hand, until Will understands the directive. Lay on your side next to the beautiful boy, lean forward and rest your head on his chest. Listen to his tinkering heart. Does it sound like yours?

He says, “It’s okay,” and rolls Will closer. Hip to hip, leg over leg, his bare knee between Mike’s narrow calves. It tickles at first-- hair, nerves, newness-- then settles. What do you do next? Appreciate the smell of his sweat, the stale soda breath warm on your forehead.

“Shit, the light.”

“You said it went out,” Will comments, wishing to draw more words. The vibration of Mike’s voice against his ear is the sound of an ocean in a shell; a vital life force to be carried wherever you are.

“It did, but I mean that one.” He points to the lamp behind Will, near the door. “You should have just told me to turn off the lights.”

His pulse is a lullaby, holy proof of an existence at once nurturing and proscribed. “But you wouldn’t have slept.”

“Yes I would have.” He gently casts Will off and sits up, disturbing the scene to climb off the bed. Across the room his fingers rest on the lightswitch, bandage siren white. There’s a hint of optimism in his voice now. “As long as you’re next to me, I’ll always be able to sleep.”

Then, darkness. The moon and streetlamp conjure an orange glow which frames Mike’s silhouette as he returns to bed. He lays flat again and pulls Will against his right side. “See? This is cool, right?”

“Yeah, cool.”

Mike sighs contentedly, giving Will permission to finally exhale. The darkness makes things easier. He hopes there are no betraying stirs, nothing else to disrupt the sanctity of this first night, a purpose to their bed sharing, an allowance of touch. He lets his right hand wander, first to Mike’s chest, then shoulder. He traces the line of bone down to the left wrist. He runs his thumb over the ladder the cuts create, scar and scab alike, as if his touch could magically heal. In the dream world Will can access cleric powers to the full extent, absorb and banish pain, and while he wishes those powers were here tonight, he'd rather that he isn’t captured by dreams and locked into some other world. He wants to wake up tomorrow and know Mike in a new way.


	44. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “I Want to Know What Love Is”, Foreigner, 1984  
> [Spotify link in work summary]
> 
> Art Credit: “Deer in a Landscape”, Karl Bodmer, on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art from 7/18/1985 - 10/6/1985.  
> See also - [https://www.nytimes.com/1985/07/19/arts/art-karl-bodmer-s-america-at-the-metropolitan.html]

Thursday they visit a famous museum called the Met (for short; she can’t pronounce the full name). At the ticket desk they are given a map and recommendation to visit a new exhibit with artwork by a Swiss man named Karl Bodmer. She isn’t sure what  _ Swiss  _ is. They decide to visit that first.

Aside from Will’s art and silly things she gave to Hopper and Mike, El has never seen art. They pass through halls of sculptured heads and armor, El crutching ruthlessly to escape their gouged-eye stares. She is nervous around these groups of people; this whole experience is uncomfortable and tense, reminding her of the mall with its marble floors and high ceilings. What if they need to get out? Beads of sweat break out on her forehead and Joyce asks if she wants a break. No, but why did she insist on wearing pants in summer? It’s too hot, she should have just let the stupid shrinker sock stump show! Stupid to be afraid. People glance at her and nothing more. She isn’t art, she is just another thing. Beads of sweat drip in bad places, too, like the day they hiked halfway up Dustin’s hill after he came home from camp. She’d been self-conscious about her body odor (when did that start happening?), thinking Mike wouldn't like it. Max later informed her she doesn’t need to wear deodorant or shave or make herself _appealing_ to boys. Hygiene is important, being perfect is not. If El ever did smell bad, Mike didn’t show it. He never minded the fuzz on her legs or her hand me down style. For him she was enough. Now it’s different. She’s in New York City and he is not her boyfriend anymore, or ever again. It has to be this way, but she’s thought about him a lot on this trip. What have he and Will been doing all week? Is it really as simple as they say on the phone? Walking, watching TV, reading? Mike mentioned Will is teaching him how to _cook_?

Suddenly Joyce is at her ear, saying they made it.  _ Can you read that sign?  _ No, she can’t, nor any of the teeny fixtures on the wall, so Joyce reads patiently as move along. Eventually El calms enough to let people pass around her while still enjoying the art. This man, Karl, his art is an  account of _pre-industrial America and its Indians_ , the people who lived here before the now-Americans sailed over from other countries. Landscapes before houses and machines were built. Wildlife roaming free. A particular piece in entrances El. On a back dirt hill, against a sky like smoke, are five sweet deer. Three deer sit, their legs rendered near white and folded preciously beneath them. The others stand, one looking down on two resting, nuzzling deer. The third deer sitting gazes serenely over the right side of the painting, similar to the fifth who stands at the left of the frame, gazing over a bramble of dark bush with its ears up. The left background is flat and still; El imagines it as a body of water. These deer are resting on an outcrop overlooking a river, or maybe a lake.

They are a family. She tells this to Joyce, who listens raptly. “This one is you,” she says of the deer standing near the resting trio. “Me.” She points to the sitting deer at the right. “Watching out for danger. And those two are Will and Mike.” When Joyce asks who the deer is at the left, by the water, she answers, “Jonathan. He keeps us safe too.”

* * *

Her first time eating at a restaurant is alarming in its calm. Glasses shimmer, lifted against golden lights. People talk around them at small square tables. Clinking silverware, soft music, instruments she can’t name. There is a cloth napkin over her lap. Servers ask her questions in low voices about the menu she can’t read, and Joyce orders on her behalf. She avoids their eyes, glad her aching stump is hidden beneath the table, under Max's cutoff jeans where no one can see.

Dinner is steak and potatoes, a favorite meal of Hopper’s, although this tastes nothing like the stuff he used to over-boil and sear to a brick. This meal is savory in a way that moves her to tears, because he will never know. Across the table Joyce takes her hand. “He used to work here, you know. Big New York City detective.” Yes, she’s heard the story. She wishes she could hear it again. Joyce asks her to share-- if she wants-- what other stories he told her. Remembering is good. Letting the sad out is good.

Their tears dry in the back of a jostling taxi, foggy with smoke. Her crutches rest awkwardly lengthwise over their knees and Joyce’s arm is around her, the other resting out the open window, cigarette between her fingers, bright orange ember dancing against the black of the street and the other lights flickering past. El’s head is to her chest and she’s glad her hair is tied back with one of Max’s borrowed scrunchies so it doesn’t whip in the warm wind. As she leans against Joyce she indulges in a fantasy that this is her true mama, not a friend's mama out on loan. How closely can you cherish a living thing if it didn’t come from your belly? Can a child ask what’s on your mind and receive an answer as candid as if it were your blood?

Honking, impatience. The radio plays too low to hear. Joyce asks the man to turn it up, and he does. _ I _ _ n my life there's been heartache and pain... _

Joyce hums under her breath between puffs. El holds her hand like she used to when Mike would put his arm around her.  She misses holding him, the surety and comfort, how special she felt, and the warmth of his brown eyes. Joyce sniffles. What is she thinking about? Was she in love once, too? Will had a dad but said he was a bad man. He lives somewhere else now and they’re much happier without him. Why are so many men bad?

_ I want to know what love is... I want you to show me. _

* * *

Back at the hotel they call Will. As usual, he and Mike both come to the phone. Joyce presses the speaker button and it’s the four of them together. Everyone misses each other. Yesterday there was a party to celebrate Steve getting a job at the movie theatre. During the party he got sad over a song, but Will helped him feel better. El feels guilty she wasn’t there. Guilty, and mad too. Why couldn't they have waited for her to come home?

They wish El good luck on her doctor’s appointment tomorrow. It’s a socket fitting-- the socket fits over her stump, and was made from the cast they took of her stump last week. Once the doctor sees how the socket fits and where to adjust it, it will be used to make her first prosthetic leg. Maybe she’d be excited about walking again if it weren’t scary and far away. They’ll be doing this trip again at the end of the month, only a few days, to pick up her temporary prosthetic. Planes, cabs and crutches, then physical therapy, which she isn’t excited about. And all of this is happening right before school starts. Joyce informed El she is starting ninth grade in the fall-- never part of the conversation when she asked Hopper in June, after her friends finished middle school. Joyce says she’ll start at Hawkins high but won’t share a classroom with her friends. Her experience is going to be different than theirs. Her experience is _ always _ different. She’s tired of it, and of words she doesn’t understand.  _ Special education _ and an  _ individualized education program _ to help reach her goals. What are her goals? The conversation was brief; Joyce saw the overwhelm on her face and kindly said they’ll revisit it back home.

When it’s time to hang up, Joyce and Will say  _ I love you. _

El and Mike say  _ goodbye _ .

* * *

In the dream she walks on two smooth legs through a great white hall. Each careful barefoot step is a faucet drip of water beads. She is a cat slinking in the shallows, ready to snatch its meal and like everything else, grind it to bits under teeth, return it as hot piss minerals into the ground. Monumental expanses on the walls. Skyscrapers. How did humans build that? Miracles she could never achieve because to create is not her nature. People speak quietly in foreign languages and if she listens hard enough she’ll know the secret.

A raptor’s sudden shriek, inhuman and tracking her. She drops to the floor and crawls. Cafeteria, broken glass and nectarines, stab the fruit and watch juice bead around the rind. She is fruit and her blood is nectar. They are hunting her, prying tongues and fingers. She is so much worse than she imagined. A monster was created in her image, as if she were a god and this is how her worshipers see her. They fear her, this weapon unleashed upon the world.

_ My fault _ .

She crawls out from under the cafeteria table and stands up. A baby cries. She turns toward the sound and falls down Mike’s basement stairs. Her leg catches between two steps and cracks, bone splintering up like candles on a cake and she screams his name. The one who brought her home, who she trusted above all else.

Billy comes, helps her out and she is gushing thanks and fluid from her leg. He opens his mouth to speak and inky blood dribbles out. He carries her to the ugly patterned couch, sputtering like his drink went down the wrong pipe. A warm spray of blood over her. He’s crying.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, weakly petting his cheek. “Help is coming.”

He lays on top of her, settles his weight heavy against her small hips. She is bloody and immobile. His hands are around her throat and he is howling. She bucks against him,  _ Get off get off!  _ Something warm swims between her legs. She crunches up in a panic. Not this again! But it isn’t Billy. A fleshy rope reeking of spoiled ground beef is worming out of her, stretching out to meet him.

* * *

She wakes like a drowning victim, thrashing in sheets and struggling for air, a warmth blooming around her she fears is blood, and as Joyce flicks the light on and jumps across to her bed El reaches down to check herself. Wet. Warm. Everywhere. It was real. It was real! Arms lock around her and she thrashes harder, hearing Joyce’s voice only after she’s smacked and kicked her several times. “You’re safe, baby, you’re safe.” Tears from her face on El’s temple, Joyce is holding her from the side, sitting on folded legs and saying, “It was a nightmare.”

“But it came out of me!” She cries and cries. “It came out of me to get him.”

“What came out of you?”

“The monster. It’s wet.”

“Wet?” Joyce draws back, head tilted. “El, did you wet yourself?”

“What?”

Joyce helps her untangle from the covers. Her lap, sleep shorts, and all the sheets surrounding are wet and dark. She turns red. “I’m sorry.”

“No sorrys.” Joyce squeezes her shoulder. “I’ll call the front desk and they’ll know exactly what to do.”

* * *

Minutes later she is sitting in the tub of their new room, water rippling around her as her shoulders shake. On the other side of the door Joyce is unloading the cart the  _ concierge _ moved their things on-- quite a task, since they’ve been here a week. El should be helping, but even if she wasn’t in the bath she couldn’t. She can’t use crutches and her hands at the same time.

The water is tepid in no time. She misses showers: standing up and cleaning herself quickly, getting back to her TV programs and magazines, the water staying hot. She misses things she never had, like a best friend and popsicles melting onto fingers and watermelon seeds, singing along on road trips, swimming in a pool. She doesn’t know how to swim. She could drown in this tub if the water were any higher.  That thought scares her. “Joyce?”

Quick footsteps. “Yes, honey? I’ve got some clean pajamas ready.”

“Can you--?" Needing help bathing again is embarrassing, but the process of climbing out of the tub, drying off and dressing both her stump and herself, is exhausting. She surrenders. "Help, please. I’m so tired,” she sobs. "I don't want to be alone.”

“You're not alone, honey. Not anymore."

* * *

They lie beside each other. Glowing city lights on one side, the curtains El insists on keeping open, and a patch of gold light on the other, where the bathroom light stays on as a kind of safety. Covers are comfortable over her bare legs, happy she had another clean pair of shorts-- Jonathan’s old flannel pants cut to size. She lays against pillows and listens to the city breathing restlessly, despite the hour.

“Do you want to tell me about the dream?” Joyce leans toward her. “Sometimes sharing makes it less scary.”

El explains best she can. When she relays the bit about Billy pushing against her, how she thought it was happening again, and the monster coming from her own body, Joyce’s face shifts. “What did you think was happening again?”

The first night Mike brought her home, soaked in rain, he offered her clean clothes. Immediately, in front of him, Lucas, and Dustin, El tried to lift off her oversized shirt. It was Mike who taught her changing happens behind a door. Until then, changing in front of others was routine. Adults have examined her body. Poked, prodded, sweat and heaved over it, whispered harsh, unintelligible words. Did Kali have the same experience? Kali, she remembers of her brief stay in Chicago, was proof that Max's appendage to the rule is right: it’s okay to change around friends of the same _species_.

“El," Joyce asks, "has anyone touched your private parts?”

“Private parts?”

She frowns, sits up a bit. “Your breasts,” she points to her own chest, “or vagina?” When El stares she adds uncomfortably, “The places covered by underwear?”

“Oh.” She nods.

“Was it when you were with Mike?” El’s eyes widen and Joyce clarifies casually, “I’m just asking because he was your boyfriend, and you guys are teenagers now. It’s normal to want to explore each other’s bodies.”

What a relief to know that’s normal. On her fourteenth birthday in June, when they were kissing, El tried something she’d seen on TV. She brought Mike’s hand to her chest, over her shirt. He pulled away. No explanation accompanied his fright, although he swore up and down she’d done nothing wrong. She never tried it again, and he never wanted anything more.

“Then, who was it?”

El shakes her head. “Bad men. Papa’s friends.”

There are no more questions. Quietly they sit until Joyce, as if holding back a great wave, says, “Those men were inappropriate with you. Adults are not allowed to touch your private parts. Do you understand? Especially not grown men.”

She reconciles this. During bathtime, Joyce (an adult) turned her head away and stayed clear of personal spots. She is safe to be around, same species, doing her best as a mom. The bad men weren’t safe, one of the reasons she had to escape. Her life or their glory. “Yes,” El nods “I understand.”

“Good. Let’s talk more about this tomorrow. Right now we should get back to sleep, okay?”

She’s still tense from the dream and isn’t ready to settle down yet. There was a weird word earlier. Foriegn, like a creature from the Dungeons games and fantasy books Mike loves. “Joyce? What is  _ vagina _ ?”

The woman’s eyebrows raise. She laughs in a light, disbelieving way. “I promise I’ll explain in the morning and answer  _ any _ questions you have about the body and sex. A little health class, just us girls. How's that sound? And by the way, El, I want you to know it is  _ always  _ okay to talk to me about this stuff.”

She draws the connection, “Girls are safe.”

“Yes.  Max and Robin can help you, too.  I bet you can’t wait to see them again this weekend, right?”

"Right."

They smile together. Joyce’s eyes are tired, and El relinquishes. They snuggle under the covers and Joyce spoons her and she feels like a baby deer, all tucked in and warm and safe. “I love you,” El says, half into the pillow.

Until now she hasn’t said those words to Joyce, yet the response is immediate. A firm kiss on the head and, “I love you too.”


	45. Jonathan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credits: “Pigs (Three Different Ones)”, Pink Floyd, 1977; “The Post War Dream” and “Your Possible Pasts”, Pink Floyd, 1983
> 
> Album Credit: The Final Cut, Pink Floyd, 1983; London Calling, The Clash, 1979
> 
> [Spotify link in work summary]

Friday night he’s speeding up the highway, late to the airport, banging his heel against the steering wheel.

_You, fucked up old hag._

_Ha ha, charade you are._

To Roger Waters of Pink Floyd, pigs are the wealthy, the privileged. The government that did this to them. Men overwrought by greed ruined their lives-- _his_ life, what Jonathan spent three years defending. What use is living now? Nancy is gone, along with his hope of a shared future different from their parents, and acrid chemicals in the blood are turning his heart rancid.

A bass solo edges in under a grating talk box whine of _wahh, wahh wah wah wahhh--_ pig snorts that pirouette into an eerie child’s organ scale, a halloween sound summing up his life. His windows are all rolled down and one of Mom’s cigarettes burns between his fingers. This past week, to slow the depletion of his stash, he’d drank her wine and gotten into the cigarette carton in the freezer. He’d taken advantage of the space she allowed him and discovered a gas station at the edge of town run by a rickety older man who doesn’t mind selling to minors ( _Drinking age dun’ have to be raised ‘til '86, y’know_ ), and had consciously decided to override his sense of obligation. For once in his fucking life he behaved like a kid, foolishly spending his precious little internship money on an escape. At home he convulsively sobbed over a sheath of collected candids and portraits of Nancy, spread like milk white thighs on the living room floor. He wailed drunkenly over how the Polaroid flash stripped her down to blue eyes and divine lashes set over a primrose smile. He rode the roller coaster nausea of his dead boss’s stolen pills, reaping rewards of sublimely itchy skin and pastoral thoughts.

He has come to know himself differently in his week alone and by now bears no remorse over the broken brother’s pact. How could he possibly be like Dad when he’s just a kid? He’s never abandoned anyone.

_Ha ha! Charade, you are._

* * *

Mom nearly overlooks him, so unrecognizable is he. Too thin, she complains, mumbling into his ear and pulling away, petting his face, then holding him again. It is an overwhelming end to a week of no physical contact. His clothes are loose, his face is broken out and hair is matted, greasy. He has neglected himself in favor of feeling better, but remains a gutted fish, ribs cracked open and innards spilled on the slippery, algae coated dock. Breathing in spite of himself. In the back of his head is a running commentary: he needs to find more pills. Even as Mom releases her hold, chatters about tomorrow’s errands, groceries and toiletries and changing his clothes, he hears it. Does El hear it, too? She watches apprehensively from her wheelchair, against the wall by their luggage, and later in the backseat of his car, until he turns the rearview mirror away. 

* * *

Since it’s almost midnight in New York he figured they'd head straight to bed. To his displeasure El is unpacking in her room, singing along to radio songs, while Mom ferrets through the kitchen. He is sitting on his bed debating whether or not to take pills. There are less than a dozen left, and he always needs more than one unless he’s drinking. There is nothing to drink in this house. As his internal debate rages on, Mom calls him. He finds her smoking at the table. Her carton rests on the counter. She exhales and ashes into a glass tray. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know what--”

“Cut the shit. My wine’s missing and so are half my cigarettes. I’d ask if it was a friend, but you’ve been so stubborn about isolating that I know damn well it wasn’t. It was you.”

“Okay, okay, Mom. I messed up." He sits down. "You know how hard it is to sleep sometimes, and I--” his throat squeezes the words-- “ _miss_ her.”

There’s a noticeable deflation. “Is this what you were talking about? Last week on the phone you told me you made a mistake.”

It takes a moment to recall. Scarcely an hour prior he had tried to kill himself. He had been drunkenly dancing and stumbling around the house naked while the tub filled. He’d enjoyed the water searing his skin, but then the record needle lifted and clicked back into its resting position and he was left in stunning silence. He sank lower and lower until all at once he forced himself beneath the water, hands splayed tensley on either side of the tub, holding himself down, emptying his lungs, stomach concave. There was a second of absolute suspension before his body spasmodically inhaled water and he reflexively sat up and vomited into his hands. He climbed out of the tub and collapsed on the floor, shaking, throat raw and thoughts pounding loud as his pulse. _Which one of them would find me?_

Now he runs a trembling hand through his outgrown bangs. “Yes,” he lies.

She ashes once more and shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh yeah? When was the last time you showered?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“A few days ago maybe? I’ll be better, though, okay?”

“Are you saying that to me or yourself? It’s barely been a month, Jonathan, no one’s expecting you to be better.” He looks away, astounded by the turn of conversation. She touches his arm. “Hey, don’t shut down on me. We can figure out how to cope together.” She nudges her pack toward him.

He wants one, but sharing cigarettes with his mother is an irreversible line to cross. He says glibly, “Is this a test?”

“No, it’s not a test.” She shakes a smoke out of the pack and lights up in one fluid motion, the expertise of a person who started at fourteen. “I feel like I’ve let you get away from me lately. What else should I know about?”

“Nothing,” he says, thinking of his pills. “I just feel like shit.”

She rolls her eyes in agreement. “It’s a lot.”

“How were the appointments?”

Fatigue shortens her description of last week’s consultation and today’s socket fitting, though it’s enough to make him feel bad. He should have taken the trip and helped out. “Do you want me to go next time?”

“Only if you want to. It’ll just be two days, so we won’t really have a chance to do anything fun like this time. Although, you could probably check out NYU while we're dealing with doctors. And we did alright together, you know? El is a survivor.” She lowers her voice. “I mean, can you _imagine_ the amount of strength it takes her to get up every day? Cause I can’t. She’s been abused, she’s-- you guys have more in common than you think.”

“So?”

“So, she wants to get to know you. I mean, you’ve been _so good_ with Will. You could really help her.”

“Because he’s my brother!” he laughs exasperatedly. "She is _not_ my sister, and I’m not Steve.”

“No, you’re not, but that doesn’t mean you have to shut her out. She has a chance here, a real chance.”

“A chance at what?” His chest tightens hearing her talk of someone else’s child this way. “She’ll never be normal, no matter what kind of family we are. She’ll never break free from what’s happened to her. None of us will.”

Mom frowns, sitting back. One arm folds over her chest and the other props up, flaunting the cigarette. “Just try, honey. Please.”

“Okay,” he concedes, “but I’m not her brother, and I’m not her parent.” He pushes the cigarettes away.

* * *

The cadence of two female voices reminds Jonathan of times he’d wait in the foyer, listening to Nancy talk with Karen in the kitchen. By the time El knocks on his door and calls his name he is close to tears. “Yeah?”

Through the door she says, “I brought you something. From New York.”

“Come in.”

She pushes the door open wide and wheels to the edge of his bed, where she presents two clean cassette tapes on the palms of her hands. “Here.” 

He takes the tapes skeptically and reads the labels. _London Calling_ , The Clash’s live album, and _The Final Cut,_ a Pink Floyd record he already has on vinyl. Now he can listen to it on his walkman while he cries himself to sleep. “Thanks,” he says, turning each cassette over carefully to review the track listings because it is too much to meet her eyes. Did she pick these out herself or did Mom, just to create this opportunity?

She answers, “I picked them out myself.”

Chills run up his spine, his faded tee shirt suddenly too light for the weather. He casts a quick sidelong glance, then studies the tapes again. “El? If you’re in my head, you need to get out.”

“In your head?”

“You heard me. How else would you know what I’m thinking?”

“Thinking?” she echoes, face pinched in confusion.

He shakes his head and stands up, pyjamas slipping low on his hips so the band of his underwear shows, his hip bones protruding proudly where they hadn’t weeks before. He goes to his dresser, where the boombox sits importantly, and ejects an old mixtape he’d made Nancy. Absently he slips the Pink Floyd cassette into the deck and presses play. The sound of cars whizzing by and radio announcers prattling in British accents just beyond the veil transport him to a familiar acoustic dream. Then static and jingling pocket change as soft organ tones rise in the background. _Tell me true, tell me why was Jesus crucified? Was it for this that Daddy died?_

El comes to the dresser. “I can’t read minds. And I don’t spy anymore.”

Right, an argument between Max and Mike in the kitchen at Hopper’s cabin. Nancy mediated in her bright pink shirt, hair still wet from the shower they'd sneaked together. That elevator apology afforded Jonathan their last kisses. His lips touched the blooming bruises on her naked back, where suppliant muscles rippled beneath his touch. How easily she could have broken. He’d spun her gently, cupped her small breast as his body awakened. Her palms pressed flat against his broken ribs, his stomach-- all this before the adrenaline wore off and he was crippled by pain.

Drums roll into a beat, startling her. She puzzles when the horns fade out just as quickly as the song got loud. The track leads into the next, those closing lyrics reverberating in Jonathan’s chest.

_What did we do?_

“Jonathan, I promise.”

He makes the mistake of looking at her. Despite years of abuse and shame reeking like skunk spray, affecting everyone in the room, she is desperately hopeful. _Bright eyed and crazy_ , as Roger sings, _frightened and lost._ In the week leading up to the trip Jonathan heard her, Max, and Will’s laughter, stood witness to the affectionate play of children spared the relentless molestation of their collective traumas. This puppy of a girl who pisses the bed and trusts too much wants to trust him to, and to be trusted. A surge of emotion confounds him and takes effort to suppress. “Okay,” he says cheaply, “I believe you.”

She gives a tiny, close lipped smile and shortens the distance between them, reaching up as if to supplicate. “By the way, I think it’s beautiful that you’re wearing her necklace.”

“What are you doing?” He swats her hands away and the tom drum snaps.

“Sorry,” she rolls back, “I just-- I remember it. Nancy.”

“No,” he stammers, “you need to leave. Leave, now!”

The chorus crashes down as she hurries to obey him. Her breath hitches in frustration when her wheels fail to comply fast enough, and the second verse rolls in like soft surf at low tide. He hates himself for causing this sudden struggle-- she wanted to honor Nancy’s memory and he rejected her. He wills himself to apologize yet cannot manage his words, choked by the subtle sound clip of children playing in a schoolground park. He crosses to shut the door once she’s gone, and the chorus crashes again, knocking him against the wall like a bully shoves a boy into his locker. He sinks to the floor and hugs his knees to his shaking chest, digging his nails into the flesh of his biceps, unable to fight off tears.

_Do you remember me? How we used to be? Do you think we should be closer?_

They were all happy once.


	46. Max

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See also - Deleted Scene 2: Will thanks Robin

Over a lunch of iced tea and chicken sandwiches, Lenore finally asks about the pendant. Max pinches the oval pendant between her thumb and forefinger, lifting it to the light.  “It belonged to my brother,” she says. Robin cocks her head in surprise, mouthing the word. What happened to  _ step- _ ? The distinction isn’t important anymore. Billy won’t be remembered. He won’t be missed-- unless Max carries his memory around.

“Ah. His mother gave it to him, I expect. Many mothers do, as a symbol of protection. A prayer to protect the child.” Lenore goes on to tell the story of the nun who saw visions of Mary, rays of light emanating around her figure. “‘O Mary’,” she quotes, “‘conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.’”

Max could have offered recourse if she hadn’t been fooled by Billy’s ego. Men strut through calamity bolstered by their pride only to collapse into the dust, armor clanging around them. That armor is supposed to save them, but they have no idea how to take it off. Billy couldn’t ask for help. Max watched him die, and the fact that his last words were an apology continues to haunt her in waking and dreams. Last night she dreamt he was a tree, all roots and branches, and she was chopping at his bark-like flesh. His tears were sap she harvested to pour on pancakes. Horrified, she woke alone, the silence perforated by ghosts of his maniac roars. He chose to save El, a strange friend of his aggravating step-sister, but his sacrifice will never be recognized because Neil can never know the truth.

“She did,” Max responds to the earlier question. “His mom gave this to him before she left Billy with his dad, who’s a total piece of--” to respect Lenore, she corrects her language-- “abuser.”

The greying woman tuts disappointedly, reaching for her tall coral colored plastic cup. “Parents have their own scars, but it’s no excuse. Still, I wonder why she didn’t take him with her.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

* * *

Steve drives them over on his break and, though he’s thrilled at the idea of reuniting with El, almost refuses to go inside. It takes a minute of interrogation to get the truth: at Nancy’s funeral Jonathan said Steve should be dead. He’s still sensitive about it, which Max doesn’t understand. Even Will, at the party Wednesday night, acknowledged his brother’s been a dick lately. Who cares? Steve’s alive and he has friends who are glad he's alive.

“Come on,” she reasons. “What’s more important, seeing El again or avoiding Jonathan’s cowardly bite?”

“He’s no coward, trust me,” Steve says readily, but he climbs out of the car.

Once Will lets them in Steve rushes into the kitchen, where El is drinking lemonade, balanced on one leg and leaning against the counter. She hears Steve calling her and hops around to face him, smiling as he sweeps her off the floor in a giant bear hug. Her stump waggles awkwardly in the air; she’s wearing her romper again, a favorite since their escape to the mall. There’s a flurry of  _ I missed you _ ’s between them, quick sentences interrupted by laughter, and then Steve lets Robin and Max take over with a promise they’ll see each other soon, on his day off of work. Will shows him out as the three girls squeeze each other to pieces, squeaking and holding on tight so El doesn’t topple over.

Minutes later they’re sprawled on El’s floor. Will sits with his back against the recliner, Robin languishes on her side, propped up on one elbow, and El sits shoulder to shoulder with Max on a pillow in the middle of the room. Breeze flutters the off-white curtains, relieving the heat. El describes her week in fragmented sentences-- scary doctors and uncomfortable pinches, fancy architecture and old, beautiful art and restaurants like in the movies. Robin rolls onto her back and pitches up signs to grow El’s vocabulary. Max and Will try to catch on.  When El finishes her recounting, upside down Robin reaches up to boop her nose. “What was your  _ favorite _ part of New York?”

“Food. New York has bagels--”

“You and your bagels!”

“--and pizza.” El smiles and signs something. “Delicious.”

Robin cranes around to see Will. “Bet you’re jealous you didn’t go, huh?”

“Yes and no. Mike and I basically ate junk food all week, but I’m really glad El got to spend time with my mom.”

“Bonding time.”

Max nods her approval. “So cool. I wish my mother and I still had bonding time. I mean, if you want to count us hiding when Neil comes home raging drunk, then technically we have it, but--”

“Neil can go to Hell,” Robin proclaims.

“I wish,” she rolls her eyes.

“Will might come at the end of the month,” El tells them. “I wish you all could.”

Max says, “God, I’d love to escape this place, even just for a weekend.”

“If I don’t go, maybe you can,” Will offers.

“No way, Neil would never allow it.”

“Why does he have a say?”

“Robin, have you met the man? He overrides anything my mom says and besides, I doubt she’d want me going, either. I’ll stay here with you and keep helping Lenore.”

“Lenore?”

“Isn’t that the woman from the used goods store?” Will scoots forward and Robin sits up so the four make a tight circle. “I want to meet her. It's awesome you're helping out.”

“Right? I’m proud of us.”

“Yeah,” Max agrees, “you guys definitely have to meet her this week. She knows about you already. She knows about all of us. The ‘survivors’,” she quotes the air exaggeratedly, spitting the last word.

“Hey, it’s what we are,” Robin defends.

Will shakes his head. “Doesn’t always feel like a good thing.”

El mirrors him. “No. Doesn’t feel good.”

“Well, it’ll get better.”

“I don’t know, Robin. That’s what we thought last fall and here we are.”

“And it’s over,” Will tells Max. “He’s gone, I haven’t felt him at all since July Fourth, and things are already looking up. El’s one step closer to getting her leg--”

“Pun intended?” Robin interrupts.

Will half-grins and continues, directing facts at Max. “El’s closer to walking, my mom and Jonathan are out shopping together right now, Mike is eating and sleeping again, and Steve got a job. Things are already getting better.”

She thinks of the dent Neil put in her bedroom door, the shatter of glass in the kitchen and her mother scrambling to clean it up. She thinks of nightmares and waking up soaked in sweat like it’s one hundred degrees in sunny California but it’s dark, dark Hawkins and the stars overhead are liars, moronically insisting via twinkle that  _ the world is a beautiful place. _

El senses cynicism and crawls to her bed and back, setting a small box in the center of their circle. “Here.” Inside are several bottles of nail polish, colors as loud as the design on her romper. “Let’s take turns. Pick a color.”

Robin and Max choose their poisons-- bright purple and electric blue, respectively. El picks out a zapping yellow before pushing the box toward Will, who shies away. “No way. Boys don’t paint their nails.”

“According to who?!” Robin picks a howling orange and hands it to him. “Having painted nails is fun, and you need more fun in your life, especially after spending a week with Mike.”

Max adds, “Seriously, how’d you not get totally sick of each other?”

Will shrugs, looking at the nail polish bottle. “We hadn’t really hung out in a while.”

“Why isn’t he here?” El asks. “He said he missed me.”

“He does. He had to help his dad with something.”

Robin gives a Lenore style  _ tsk _ . “He’s lying. Steve uses that excuse when he’s too depressed to leave the house.”

“Mike doesn’t lie.” He looks at El and adds, “Not anymore.”

“Really?” Robin jumps to a stand and offers her hand. “Let’s call him, then. Ask Mikey what he’s so busy doing he that can’t get his butt over here and join our paint club.” She drags Will off, leaving the girls alone.

“You’re staying tonight, right?”

“Totally,” Max answers, motioning to her bag near the dresser. “I missed you like,  _ so _ much. It was weird not having you here.”

Her chin lifts hopefully. “Really?”

Will there ever be a day she doesn’t doubt herself?

“Yes, El. You’re my best friend.”

A smile lifts her cheeks. “You’re my best friend, too.”


	47. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud”, David Bowie, 1969  
> [Spotify link in work summary]

It’s a Saturday afternoon family meeting. Company is on the way over for his mother’s annual Labor Day weekend bash. Ugly decorative pillows have been fluffed to _House & Garden _standards; God forbid people find out they sit, right? She began the tradition back when Andrew was alive, around the same time she became head of the PTA. To scorn those who expected her to give it up after his death, she fixated on saving face and staying relevant.

That’s not why everyone is standing, though. It’s tense in here. Dad is on his hundredth round of disappointment this week. “Do you think I’m stupid? Did you think I wasn’t going to find out you got fired?”

“No, I--”

“Couldn’t even tell me yourself, coward! Sitting on your ass all day, _again_ , jumping whenever doors slam, breaking your mother’s dishes, wiping your eyes constantly, hoping I wouldn’t notice! What is wrong with you?”

“A bunch of stuff! I’m sorry, okay? Sorry I--”

“You’ve never been sorry a day in your damned life,” Dad spits, wagging his finger threateningly, “but you will be.”

Fear straightens him up. “What? Why?”

Dad calls his mother. “Tell him.”

She’s tugging curtains into place and dust-checking the windowsill. A homemaker turning home into a sterile environment. Serenity at what cost? Before Andrew died she was different. Her face was expressive, malleable. She told stories, took pride in her children. Now it’s a constant carved smile painted onto a vacant face. Anything to pretend it’s not a vacant life.

“It’s about time you leave the nest." She turns to him. “Don’t you think? Most young men are in college by now, or engaged to be married... You know, becoming _adults_.”

“Just cause I’m not doing that stuff yet doesn’t mean I’m not becoming an adult. The last few years haven’t exactly been easy, alright?”

His father’s chest puffs indignantly. “Go talk to my friends who got limbs blown off in ‘Nam, and then tell me your life hasn’t been easy. We’ve given you everything you could possibly need and you have nothing to show for it!” He gestures at Steve, who shoves a hand in his pocket to feel his car keys. He could leave right now, no belongings, just himself in a car he's going to drive off a cliff. “Where’s your sense of responsibility?”

“It’s here. I swear it’s here, I am responsible.”

“If that was true you wouldn’t have been fired,” Dad replies. “For your information, I stopped by the theater yesterday to speak to the old fool who took a chance on you. Apparently you were costing him almost double your pay. Dropping refreshments between the counter and register, messing up change, directing customers to the wrong theatre. There are only two screening rooms! How do you mess that up?”

His mother watches as if through a screen. She is a witness, her opinions available upon request. She is not a participant. Steve knows better than to hope she’ll come to his defense.

“We shouldn’t have been so lenient with you after Andrew died,” his father continues. “You barely graduated-- all those keg parties-- and you were involved in that sketchy Starcourt explosion, fired twice in one summer.”

“I wasn’t fired from Scoops! The mall burned down, like you said.”

Dad snorts. “This is exactly why I’d never hire you. I said there was an explosion. Do you see what I’m talking about? Honey, his mind is gone.”

A hand perches lightly on his mother’s chest. She produces a sympathetic expression. **“** We just want to see you independent. That’s all we want for you.”

Steve’s world goes blurry when he blinks. Dad sighs heavily. “Christ, I can’t even look at you. Stop crying, start packing.”

“Wait, you were serious? You--" his voice cracks-- "you really want me to leave?”

“By the first.”

He feels it rushing like the guy behind you at the red light hasn’t hit his breaks. “Isn't that tomorrow? Where am I supposed to go?”

“Maybe your girlfriend’s? The one that’s been around lately?”

Dad laughs at his mother’s suggestion. “Please, honey. He hasn’t had a girlfriend since Nancy dumped him, and rightly so.” He levels with Steve. “You’re one step away from being an invalid.”

 _In-vuh-lid._ The word is foreign. Definitely a bad thing.

The grandfather clock gongs and he startles, chokes on a breath.

Dad makes a dissatisfied noise as his mother reminds them, “Company is coming. We need to prepare. Light the grill.” Excitement shimmers behind the glaze in her heavily made-up eyes. Soon it’ll be cocktail time, and she’ll be a Nylon-stockinged, lip-lacquered actress in her small sphere of fame. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, doll,” she tells Steve. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

 _You’re the doll_ , he thinks. Valium doll.

Her last words don’t register until she’s already disappeared, her clipping kitten heels fading across the kitchen floor. “Tomorrow? Dad, what’s--?” He needs to sit down or else pass out, his heart’s sprinting again.

Dad shakes his head disappointedly. “Too much to expect you to remember we agreed you’d go somewhere else tonight, huh? Just furthers my point. The way you behaved on the Fourth was ridiculous. Made us look like we raised a clown, which apparently we did.”

Steve’s chest seizes up, his breaths shallow. Shouldn’t it be easier, knowing how these attacks play out? Each time seems harder because he is rendered powerless over himself.

“What’s your issue now?” Dad demands.

“I’m--”

“Spit it out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Still being here.”

“Then leave. Go on!”

“No, I mean--” His vision tunnels, the buttons on Dad’s shirt gleaming. “Sorry I keep surviving all this bullshit like a fucking cockroach.”

“Watch your language!”

“And I’m sorry I’m not Andrew, that I’m alive and he’s dead and I’m sorry I’m not in his place cause I’m sure everyone would be a lot happier if I was.”

Stars explode in his periphery and he crumbles back onto the couch. His brain is struck by sharp pain. Dad disgustedly shakes out his hand. “You can’t even take a hit like a man.”

* * *

He pulls down the driveway. Mrs. Byers and Jonathan are on the porch; the former waves grandly at the new arrival as the latter counts money. Steve waves back and cuts the ignition. Is this a good idea? Sure, El returned from New York early this morning with her prosthetic leg, and the kids are celebrating her first steps and school starting, but Steve isn’t wanted by the one person here who has the least of what he wants. His heart hurts on Jonathan’s behalf; he doesn’t want to overstep more than he has. Although, it is strange how perversely-observant Jonathan hasn’t noticed him yet. There’s a looseness about his jaw and shoulders that pique Steve’s curiosity. Did his short New York trip relieve the weight constantly bearing down on him, or has he been beaten into submission?

Steve slips the keys out of the ignition and into his pocket. Mrs. Byers dips into the house, leaving the front door open for him while Jonathan tucks the money into his wallet and slowly steps off the porch. He hears the car door open and looks up. Through his lank bangs Steve catches a familiar blankness, a glaze over his eyes he’d recognize anywhere-- even in a dream. “Ground control to Major Tom!”

Jonathan stares.

“I mean, uh, hope you’re not leaving cause of me.”

“I’m picking up the pizza.”

“Cool.” Steve nods, noticing how his words blurred together. Squeals and laughter erupt behind the house, giving him an excuse to conversate, investigate. “What’s the Brat Pack doing, anyway?”

“Turning Castle Byers into a bonfire.”

“Woah! Didn’t you build that with Will? Why are they destroying it?”

“It was already destroyed.” He shrugs, absently scratching his neck. The collar of his shirt gapes, showing shadows between bones. “He just… wants to burn it now.”

“Who, Will?” Steve rounds his BMW and trots over. “Doesn’t he want to rebuild it?”

“Guess not.”

Jonathan fishes into his pocket. Keys jingle. The easy dismissal of something that obviously matters is all the proof Steve needs. “Jesus,” he comments, “is that why you’re all dolled up?”

“Excuse me?”

“Doll. Valium doll. You can’t drive like this. And trust me, I wouldn’t nose into your business if I didn’t think it mattered, okay? But it does, so even though you hate me cause I’m not dead in the ground yet, I can’t let you drive like this. You’re high as a kite.”

His eyes are beadily marbleous until he realizes Steve knows. The keys slip from his intoxicated hand, kicking up a puff of dust at his toes. As he stoops over, each knob of his spine presses grotesquely through his shirt. Steve cringes, thinking of his own thin mother (who rarely drives for being lit), and that time Mike passed out. And these are people being watched. Right now Mrs. Byers is preoccupied by mothering El, and Will said he and his brother still aren’t speaking, so who’s watching Jonathan? Who notices when he’s weak?

“Come on, man. It’s dangerous. I’ll drive.”

Jonathan yanks the rusty green door open. “I don’t care what happens to me.” 

“Yeah, I get that, but you’re lucky enough to have people who do. You really want them to go through another funeral procession just cause you don’t feel like sitting in a car with me for ten minutes?”

His acne-spattered face is gaunt, cheeks hollowing as he opens his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Byers appears in the front doorway and calls out, “Steve, are you coming in?”

“Sorry! I’m gonna keep him company, okay?”

“Oh!” She grins awkwardly, equal parts surprised and hopeful. “Well, in that case, see you guys soon!”

* * *

Despite four windows rolled open, Jonathan stinks. Depression stink. Worse in summer heat. He watches Steve through a kaleidoscope, slouched against the passenger’s door with his knees spread wide. The seatbelt is the only thing securing him and his slightly amused expression. “Seriously? You listen to Bowie?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“No reason.”

“Robin loaned me this tape,” he boasts.

“Of course. Your girlfriend’s the one with good taste.”

“Okay, let me set the record straight on this, since everyone and their mother has asked: me and Rob aren’t dating. We’re just friends. That’s _it_.” He swings his hand through the air decisively.

A voice surfs a wave of fanfare orchestra while a whimsical harp dances above the acoustic chord current. _It's really me! Really you, and really me!_ Silly spikey snare drum punctuates: _It's so hard for us to really be!_

“Finally lost your charm?”

“I’ve lost a lot,” Steve admits over Bowie’s emphatic, long-holding notes. “My mind, for one-- and don’t say anything about how I never had a brain to begin with, alright? I already know.” He casts a sideways glance at Jonathan, who watches him idly as the song recedes to a poppy beat. “It’s gotten worse, anyhow. Here’s a great example, I’ve lived in this town my entire life and right now I can’t remember where the pizzeria is.”

After a beat Jonathan says, “Near Melvald’s, where my mom works.”

“Yeah, see, I know I _know_ what that is, but I don’t even know what that is.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrow. “The pharmacy?”

“Can you just direct me? Please-- oh, my God!” Steve swerves when he realizes Jonathan has pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Fine, I’ll wait until we stop.” The pack rests in his hands on his lap and sunlight streaks across his empty face. It hangs low over the trees; darkness is creeping up earlier each day. Soon enough the clocks will change again, making four o’clock a twilight zone Steve isn’t looking forward to. He hates the dark. Does Jonathan? What joy has he ever had, and what joy remains? The kids say all he does is stay in his room and read. This quick ride to town must be a novel event. At one time Steve would have regarded Jonathan as pathetic for that reality. Now he thinks about how many times he and Tommy have smoked in this car on the way home from parties. It’s unfair to deny Jonathan the same right.

“Actually man, you know what? Go ahead. Smoke.”

In a practiced fashion, and without hesitation, he shakes a cigarette out and lights it from a lighter in his pocket. Steve watches out of the corner of his eye, kind of wanting one. “When did you even start?”

Jonathan exhales out the window, tucking loose locks of greasy, overgrown hair behind his left ear with the ease of a completely different person. “The week I was alone.”

* * *

Parked outside the pizzeria he begs Jonathan to go inside and carry the pizzas, embarrassedly explaining how he’s lost the function of carrying stuff while walking. Jonathan absorbs the information sagely and minutes later slides the pizzas safely into the backseat. They roll out of the parking lot. Bowie’s cassette has finished and the sun is setting. Restlessness expands in Steve’s chest-- another attack? Apparently the mouthwatering smell of pepperoni grease isn’t distracting enough. “Hey,” he says, “there’s some tapes in the glovebox if you wanna pick the tunes.”

“We’ll be home soon.” Jonathan scratches the back of his arm listlessly. (There are marks-- how long has he been getting high?) His hand lights on a tiny charm around his neck and he lets his head fall back on the headrest.

It clicks. “Better not let Mike see you wearing Nancy’s necklace. Mrs. Wheeler’s convinced he stole it from her room. She pretty much blames him for everything now, so when he denied it, she hit him.”

Jonathan avoids the subject by pointing to Steve’s cheek. “She hit you, too?”

“What?” He tilts the rearview mirror and sees a definite shiner under his left eye. “Shit. Those brats catch everything, I’ll never hear the end of this.”

“Who’d you lose to this time?”

“My dad. He hates me cause I’m not my brother. Just some brain dead loser who peaked in high school. He kicked me out earlier, wants me gone by tomorrow. Sick of my bullshit, you know? Frankly I am too.”

He pulls deep on a cigarette Steve didn’t see him light. “Thought you were an only child.”

“I am now.”

“What happened?”

“I had a brother. He died.”

Jonathan leans his arm out the window and ashes into the wind. “When?”

“I was seven, I think.”

“What happened?”

“Dude, if you’re gonna ask questions like this, at least let me take a drag.” He reaches out, half-expecting a harsh no, but Jonathan shrugs and passes the cigarette.

It’s been months since he’s smoked. Steve is dizzied by nicotine rushing into his blood. It worsens his nagging headache, but a tickle in his belly gives him the courage to admit what he hopes could bond them. Jonathan’s been receptive to everything else tonight, even sharing a cigarette. Hopefully he’ll be receptive to this, too. After all, they are both alive in spite of themselves. They both lost people who deserve to be in their place. “We were on vacation. One of my aunts has a house on Lake Michigan. A bunch of us were playing together in the water. He drowned.”

Jonathan watches him take another puff. He blinks confusedly like, Steve and his disclosures are some weird, inconceivable dream just beyond his memory. He leans over and lifts the cigarette from between Steve’s trembling fingers. After a moment of thought he puts it between his own lips. His chest rises with the inhale, and when he exhales into their shared space it briefly hazes the windshield view, disorienting Steve until hot air clears the car. He sees Jonathan rest his boney elbow on the passenger door and drop the cigarette into the wind that stirs his hair. All the while his eyes are trained to Steve as if monitoring a polygraph test.

“Driveway,” he says. “Next left.”


End file.
